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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



WOLFE OF THE KNOLL, 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



BY 



^ 



MKS. GEOEGE Pf MARSH 



1-. 




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NEW YORK : 
CHARLES SCRIBNER, GRAND STREET. 

LONDON": 

SAMPSON LOW, SON & COMPANY. 

1860. 



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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S59, by 

CHAELES SCEIBNEK, 

In the Clerk's Oflice of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 

District of New York. 



JOHN F. TROW, 

PRINTER, BTEKEOTYPER, AND KLKCTROTYPKK, 

377 and 379 Brjiilwiiy, 
Cor. Wliite Street, New York. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Wolfe of the Knoll, .... ... 13 

NiORTHR AND SkATHI, 229 

A Fable, 236 

The Maid of the Merry Heart, . . . . . 238 
A Lay of the Danube : 

I. The Wissehrad, 240 

II. The Magyar Maid, 242 

Daniel, the Cistercian, 248 

The Fountain of the Poor, 251 

The Water of El Arbain, 256 

Axel (from the Swedish of Tegner), 261 

Song of the Lapland Lover (from the Swedish of Franzen), . 308 

The Moss-Rose (from the German of Helmine von Chezy), . 811 

The Glow-Worm (from the German of Helmine von Chezy), . 314 

A Godlie Hymne (from the German of Zuiuglius), . . 316 

To , 324 



WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 



mXEODUCTIO]^. 

The scene of the following poem is laid alternately on the 
island of Amrum near the coast of the duchy of Schleswig- 
Holstein, and in the city of Tunis and the territory of that Bey- 
lik. In the descriptions of the island and of the manners of 
its inhahitants, are embraced not only the characteristic features 
of Amrum itself, hut those belonging to the Halligs, or low tide- 
washed islands of the same shallow waters, and they have been 
drawn principally from J. G. Xohl's " Marschen und Inseln der 
HerzogtJiumer Schleswig und Hohtein^'^ and from a tale by 
Biernatzki. 

The singular geography of the Frisian country, and the strange 
life of its people, seem to have made a powerful impression on 
Tacitus and the elder Pliny. The latter gives, in Book xvi., 
chap. i. of his '■'- N'atural History^'''' a lively description of the 
scene of this part of our story, which, in the words of Kohl, 
"is as faithful and striking, as if, like me, he had himself sailed 
over from Wyk to Oland with Skipper Jilke Junk Jtirgens." 
For Holland's translation of the passage the reader is referred to 
the Appendix I. 

Tacitus, speaking of Germany generally, argues that the 



12 



INTRODUCTION. 



people must have been indigenous, because no man would ever 
leave Asia, Africa or Italy, and brave the horrors of the deep, 
to become a resident of so desolate and wretched a region. It 
appears, both from his testimony and from other sources, that 
the Frisians of the coast and the islands have, from the earliest 
ages, been remarkable for their courage and independence. For 
an amusing version of the story of the two ambassadors, whose 
appearance in the theatre at Rome is commemorated by Tacitus, 
Annal. 13, 54, the reader is again referred to the Appendix II. 

The pictures of the Sahara, and of the wild tribes who 
traverse it, are drawn partly from the writer's personal obser- 
vation of desert-life and scenery, and partly from authorities 
which will be given hereafter. 

The leading incidents of the story are taken from a tradition 
contained in the first chapter of the second volume of Kohl's 
work, and the name of the poem is from the same source. 

It may be unnecessary to say, that the narrative is intended 
to serve merely as a thread to connect the strong contrasts of 
life and nature offered by the peculiar regions that have been 
selected for description. 



WOLFE OF THE KNOLL 



CANTO I. 

AMPwOOM. 



Come, ye that are weary of heart, with me 

To a far-off isle in a lonely sea ! 

It lies, not glowing 'neath tropical skies. 

Cradled in waters of amethyst dyes ; 

No vine-wreaths are there, no feathery palms, 

No blossoms are filling the air with balms. 

No forests are waving, no stately trees — 

Grand organs played by the tune-loving breeze — 

Not even a coppice where summer birds throng 

Dazzling with plumage or thrilling with song ; 

No stream leapeth wild from the mountain-side, 
1* 



14 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

'Neath cavernous rocks for a moment to hide, 
Then calmly through winding valleys to glide. 
No lake nestles there, with its fairy skiffs, 
Half silvered by moonlight, half shaded by cliffs. 
Our desolate choice hath no charms like these, 
Sad hearts to comfort, or glad ones to please. 
The sea casteth pearls on Araby's strand. 
Shells, corals, and sea-moss, and ruby sand ; 
And emerald, scarlet, and gold fish there 
Flash through his waters transparent as air. 
His wavelets are laughing all night on that shore. 
Tossing their jew^els at touch of the oar.* 
But angry and hoarse is the voice of the tide. 
As he lashes our island's trembling side. 
And rolls up the ooze from his slimy bed, 
The pale thin meadows to overspread. 
Then leaves, as he slowly sinketh back. 
The muscle, the crab, and the ray in his track. 

* The brilliant flashes oj phosphoric light, seen when the waves dash 
upon the reefs, or are broken by the oar or otherwise, are called by the 
Arabs " the jewels of the deep." 



AMEOOM. 15 

Else few are the gifts that he bringeth the while ; 
He weareth at best but a mocking smile, 
Like a foe confessed, who knoweth his power, 
And his victim's weakness, yet bides the hour."* 

On the North Sea's icy and heaving breast 
The islet of Amroom finds doubtful rest, 
Above the wild waters scarce holdeth its place, 
And bleak are the winds that sweep o'er its face 
All bare to the blast, for shelter is none, 
Save what the billows in scorn have upthrown — 
The downs low and broken along the strand, 
'Gainst the North Sea a rampart of shifting sand. 
'Twould seem that King ^gir,f in merry mood, 
Would teach us to fetter his own wild flood. 



* One is coustautly reminded by the figuratiA^e language of the people 
that the whole coast is at war with the sea. Thej always speak of the 
west wind and the ocean as " the enemv ; " of the downs and dykes as 
" the defences and iutrenchments against the enemy ; " of the outer tier 
of islands as " the vanguard," and of the inner as " the rear-guard." 

t In the Scandinavian mythology JEgiv is a sea-god, who personifies 
the destructive, as Njord does the beneficent powers of the ocean. 



16 WOLFE OF THE -KNOLL. 

But man may not trust to his treacherous art — • 
One stroke, in his wrath, and those hills shall part ! 
The rest of the island, level and low, 
The turbulent tide doth oft overflow, 
Nor is thus contented ; but day by day 
Doth he crumble that dwindling sod away, 
And foot by foot it is narrowing fast ; 
All will be melted in ocean at last. 

But who are the dwellers on this lone spot 

By nature herself disowned and forgot. 

That here we should linger in such a waste, 

Unblest as the fancy of poet e'er traced ! 

Why seek we not, rather, some coralline isle 

Of seas Pacific, to feast for awhile 

On flowers that would seem to our wondering eyes 

To have dropped from the fields of Paradise — 

On fruits that a flavor as rich might boast 

As the pride of Ulysses' royal host — 

Where beauty, as soft as the Latmian dreams 



AMKOOM. 17 

Of England's slain poet, forever beams — 
Where mermaids hollow their sparkling caves 
In the crystal rocks that the cool tide laves, 
And hlow sweet airs through their pearly shells 
Till wide o'er the island the harmony swells ? 
Ah ! our brother man — so fallen, so low ! 
With an aching heart we should turn and go ! 
Then choose for our dreaming this desert sod, 
With a truth-loving folk, that feareth God ! 



Through fiery haze descends the sun. 

And throws across the waters dun 

A slender band of ruddy stain 

So bright it seems the golden chain, 

That binds earth to his glorious sphere, 

Is visibly extended here. 

And that the dancing waves may break 

The flashing links they rudely shake. 

Tranquilly doth our islet sleep, 

This eventide, upon the deep. 



18 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

O'er its bare face the slant rays pass 

And gild it with a tender glow, 

Leaving no image on the grass, 

Of rocky crag or greenwood bough ; 

The crescent line of downs alone 

Hath eastward a broad shadow thrown, 

And the poor cotter's lowly roof, 

From angry spring-tides held aloof 

By the turfed mound his hands have reared* 

Above the reach of foe so feared, 

In lengthening lines fantastic drawn, 

Lies pictured on the sea- washed lawn ; 

While flocks, slow drawing toward each thatch, 

Still eager, their scant pasture snatch. 

His homeward path the peasant treads, 

His children gather at his knee. 

Their slender board the mother spreads — 

Here all is peace and poverty. 



* The inhabitants of these tide-islands are obliged to erect their humble 
dwellings on artificial mounds raised above the reach of high-water. 



AMKOOM. 19 

Without, no sound but the low dash 

Of tidal wave, the cry or plash 

Of the wild sea-bird, glancing bright 

As starry meteor in its flight. 

No children on that strand are seen 

Grouped merrily in noisy play, 

No muser marks with thoughtful mien 

The dying splendors of the day, 

No stranger-eyes with wonder view 

A scene so lonely and so new. 

But on yon knoll an old man stands 
With furrowed cheeks and toil-worn hands ; 
His long, loose hair is bleached as hoar 
As the bright foam that wreathes the shore ; 
His form, erect in youthful prime, 
Bends 'neath the gathered griefs of time ; 
Yet on that calm, sad brow is laid 
Of wrong, revenge, remorse, no shade ; 
Though deeply traced are sorrow's lines, 



20 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

The light of faith still clearly shines. 
Most like a child who, while it grieves, 
Still in a father's love believes, , 
The old man seems ; and as the child. 
To free its sight, doth push away 
The ringlets from its forehead mild, 
So throws he back his locks of gray. 
Then searches long and eagerly 
The horizon of that turbid sea. 
With footstep hushed and pitying eye 
The shepherds silent pass him by. 
And every child is taught to show 
Meet reverence for that head of snow. 

Nor first this eve upon that hill 
The aged Wolfe doth w\atch, but still, 
Day after day, his stooping form 
May there be seen, in calm and storm, 
His eye turned ever to the sea. 
North, west, and south, untiringly. 



AMEOOM. 21 

No rising sun but fmds him there, 

Nor misses him the evening star, 

And the pale moon doth nightly shed 

Her cold light on his frosted head. 

First when the j^all of darkest night 

Hath fallen, the old man leaves the height. 

"What doth he there 1 Hath fancy wrought 

Within his brain some strange misthought ? 

Is it some vision that he sees, 

A phantom-child of mist and breeze 1 

Ah, no ! he waiteth for his boy. 

The island's pride, his heart's last joy ! 

Young Melleff was as brave as good, 
A bolder lad ne'er stemmed the flood. 
None ventured with a foot so free 
To dare the treacherous tide as he. 
When winds and waves the islet shook, 
His arm secured the trembling flock. 
Nor less his manly heart was shown 



22 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

In others' need, than in his own, 
And oft admiring neighbors told, 
How the boy's courage saved their fold. 
But long ago this only son 
A shepherd's for a sailor's life 
Exchanged, and even years have flown, 
Since hope and fear, in ceaseless strife, 
Within the parent's heart have dwelt— 
Ye know that grief who such have felt ! 
Once, only, tidings had been brought, 
Tidings with hope and comfort fraught ; 
The youth ^ was soon to sail for home, 
No more from the dear sod to roam, 
Truth, charity, and peace were there, 
The world without was cold and drear.' 
But he comes not — the mother sleeps, 
Weary with watching, in the grave, 
Yet still the lonely father keeps 
His eye upon the distant wave ; 



AMROOM. 23 

He there may chance a ship to see, 
And in that ship his child may be ! 

Old Helda, widowed, poor and weak, 
Was wandering on that beach, to seek 
For sticks to light her evening fire, 
When she beheld the anxious sire 
Again on the accustomed hill. 
" Thank God ! " she cried, " it was His will 
To grant a lot less hard to me, 
Than this — year after year to be 
Mocked by vain hopes unceasingly. 
Better to know my children rest 
With God, and Christ, and angels blest. 
And to live calm in the meek trust 
To join them when this frame is dust ! " 
Once more upon the down she cast 
Her eyes, but night was gathering fast ; 
" God help him ! " then her old lips pray. 
And, with a sigh, she turns away. 



CANTO II 



TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 



Where lingers the son of the cloudy North ! 
Hath he forgotten the home of his birth 1 
Careth he not that his sire hath grown gray 
With watching and praying by night and by day 1 
As soon shall a mother forget her child 
As the wandering boy his islet wild, 
And thoughts of the eyes that wake and weep 
For him, hold his own weary lids from sleep. 
Thou, thou dost keep him, marvellous land 
Of the sourceless river, the boundless sand ! 
Visions of Amroom — home yearnings are vain ! 
Fast, fast is he bound by the captive's chain. 



TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 25 

On Tunis bright the sunbeams fall, 
Where, girded by her double wall. 
She sits a queen, upon whose brow 
A thousand flashing crescents glow, 
Forming a diadem to vie 
With Maia's crown that flames on high. 
Goodly, without, her vesture shows — 
Scarce purer white the mountain-snows. 
Who saw her thus, in royal state, 
Kissed by the bounding wave so free, 
Even lovely Venice might forget. 
And hail her there, ' Bride of the Sea ! ' 
Fair are her minarets and towers, 
Her rosy gardens, viny bowers ; 
Her fountains gush as clear and cold 
As ever naiad's source of old. 
And softer murmurs than they shed 
Rose not from fond Alpheus' bed. 
When Arethusa stooped to lave 
Her tender limbs in his bright wave. 



26 WOLFE or THE KNOLL. 

Her marts are heaped with merchandise, 
Such as the gorgeous East supplies ; 
Buyers and sellers throng her gates. 
And at her feet a navy waits. 

But now half-silent are her streets, 

So fearfully the noontide beats 

On the white arches, whose fierce glare 

Scorches the eye ; the burning air 

Is choked with sand the Ivliamseen * brings 

Upon its swift and dreadful wings. 

Within their halls the rich repose, 

Their vacant shops the salesmen close. 

But the poor hammal f bendeth still 

Beneath his load ; the sakkas J fill 



* Khamseen — from kliamsoon, fifty — is the name xisually given to a 
strong south wind which blows throughout northern Africa, and especially 
in the valley of the Nile, at intervals through a period of about fifty days 
in the months of April, May, and June. 

t Hammal, the Arabic word for porter ; a very important class of 
laborers in Oriental cities, where wheel-carriages are not used.- 

X Sakka, a water-carrier. See Appendix III. 



TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 27 

Their water-skins afresh, while some . 
Offer free draughts to all who come, 
In name of the good Moslem soul 
Whose bounty fills the brimming bowl. 
The patient ass, that none will spare, 
His crushing burden still must bear 
Through the close lanes, while curses sore 
The jostled passers on him pour. 
These may not choose, they may not rest ; 
Though taint with heat, with hunger pressed, 
The poor, the brute, must toil or feel 
From want or violence sharper ill. 

Fanned by his slaves, the lordly Bey 

On Persian mats soft dreaming lay. 

Spacious the court and cool the air, 

A thousand jets were playing there, 

Breathing a low and hushing sound 

More calm than silence ; all around 

Choice flowers their fiirest bloom were spreading, 



28 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Through marble halls their perfume sheddmg 
And pantmg birds were flocking there, 
The freshness, without fear, to share ; 
Tor w^ell the happy warblers know 
The Prophet's follower ne'er their foe. 
But not a human voice was heard, 
And not a human footstep stirred. 
Silent as stone, each watchful slave 
Moved but the ostrich plume to wave ; 
So deep a stillness must be kept. 
To guard the rest of him that slept ! 

But hark ! there is a cry without ! 
' Allah is great ! ' the faithful shout. 
The voice of triumph in the street 
Starts Aali from his slumber sweet. 
He sends a slave the cause to learn — 
'Tis for the corsair's safe return ; 
New prizes in the harbor ride 
To swell Tunisia's wealth and pride. 



TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 29 

The victors towards the Casbah* press, 
Cheered by the joyful populace. 
Only last moon, like birds of prey, 
On rapid wing they swept away. 
And, as if gifted with the same 
Mysterious sense that guideth them 
Unfailing where their victim lies, 
Sudden as bolt from the clear skies, 
They lighted on the Franks too near 
A Christian shore to dream of fear. 

Their chieftain boasts that he is come 
Of the great line of Khair-ed-deen,f 



* The Casbah is a castellated fortress at Tunis, adjacent to which is the 
palace of the Bey, Dar el Bey, and it gives name to a public square called 
the " Square of the Casbah." 

t Khair-ed-deen, the Excellence of tJie Religion, [of Islam,'] generally 
known to Europeans by the name of Barbarossa, was a native of Mytilene, 
and of Moslem birth and education, as appears by his own autobiography, 
and not a renegade as he has usually been represented. He was the Nel- 
son of the Ottoman marine in the sixteenth century, and conquered for the 
Porte the regencies of Algiers and Tunis. No Turkish maritime com- 
mander has ever made himself so formidable to the Franks, and the whole 
coast of Spain and Italy was in a perpetual state of alarm while he was at 
the head of the Ottoman navy. 



30 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

The terror once of Christendom, 

That ne'er a bolder foe hath seen ; 

And many a deed of blood and fire 

Have proved him worthy of a sire, 

Who made dread Barbarossa's name 

The Paynim's pride, the Christian's shame. 

Yet was not Murad merciless ; 

Nor poor nor stranger would oppress ; 

Ne'er lacked, beneath his roof, the * guest 

Of God invited ' * food or rest. 

Five times a day with zeal he prayed 

Toward Mecca bowed his shaven head. 

Kept fitting fast, and freely gave 

Whene'er the poor an alms might crave. 

Such duties did he ne'er forget. 

Had not the Prophet clearly set 

These precepts above every other — 

* * The invited of God ' is the name given to a stranger who asks hos- 
pitality. When a traveller approaches an encampment, he cries, " mas- 
ter of the tent ! Lo, a guest invited of God ! " and seldom fails to receive 
the attention and the comforts which his wants require. For the tradi- 
tional sayings of the Prophet on this subject, see Appendix IV. 



TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 31 

Worship to God, love to his brother ? 
But Christians — was it not as plain 
That they were infidels, not men, 
Not brothel^ — ratJier dogs, indeed ! 
Have we not heard as strange a creed '? 
When late an iron despot raised 
His arm, to crush a monarch praised 
Of all, for mild and liberal laws, 
A friend to every generous cause, 
Whose empire's gates are open flung 
To every faith and every tongue, 
From our free land a chorus burst 
To cheer the tyrant's deed accursed. 
' A Christian this, a Moslem he, 
Can need of further witness be 1 ' 
Vain man ! thus ever, to thy shame, 
Cheating or cheated with a name ! 
Think'st thou that Paul would sooner set 
Mary o'er Christ than Mahomet ? 



32 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

But now too long the corsair waits 

For audience at the palace-gates. 

Behold him then before the Bey, 

Greeting, as Moslem subject may, 

His haughty lord, who bids him tell 

How he hath spoiled the infidel. 

Briefly showed Murad, as was meet, 

That he had seized a merchant-fleet 

Near Sicily's frequented coast — 

* Complete the triumph that we boast. 

And rich the booty that we bear. 

Well worthy for a prince to share. 

The slaves are countless — men and boys — 

They stand without, and wait thy choice.' 

" Allah is great, and thou art brave," 
Eeplied the Bey, and signal gave 
That, score by score, the Christians should 
Be brought before him ; as they stood, 
His keen eye saw, at one quick glance, 



TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 33 

Of a large ransom what the chance, 
And thus he chose — an eighth of all 
By law doth to the pacha fall. 

But who shall paint the captives' woe — 
Anguish that words are vain to show ! 
Wouldst thou thy curious fancy teach, 
The means are not beyond thy reach. 
Nor need imperial Catharine rise 
To aid the artist's hard emprise. 
A Christian land doth furnish forth 
The spectacle to the whole earth, 
With truth more awful to the soul 
• Than to the ear the thunder-roll. 
When to the skies the dreadful blast 
The frigate's blazing fragments cast, 
Shadowing to Hackert's wondering sight 
The' horrors of the Tchesmian fight.* 

* To enable Hackert to paint more truthfully the great naval victory 
won by the Russian fleet over the Turkish at Tchesme in 1770, Admiral 
OrloflF, by order of the empress, blew up a Russian frigate off Leghorn. 
2* 



34: WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Enough, 'twas sad those Franks to see 

Fettered before the Osmanli. 

Shame and despair reigned in each face, 

And left for pride but little place. 

Yet Aali spake no word of scorn ; 

His was a soul too nobly born 

To mock the grief of that sad throng, 

Though conscience charged him not with wrong. 

Nor looked he there a tyrant fierce, 

With breast that pity could not pierce. 

Nor seemed more careless of distress 

Than those who gentler faith profess. 

A little girl upon his knee 

Was leaning lovingly and free ; 

Too tender yet her age to learn 

Those lessons of submission stern, 

And reverence, that the law requires, 

Of Moslem children toward their sires ; 

Nor veil nor lattice yet control 

The freedom of her joyous soul. 



TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 35 

See ! the proud pacha's hand is laid 
As fondly on his daughter's head 
As ever Christian father mild 
Hath rested his upon his child. 
And ne'er did opening flower disclose, 
Since Chaucer saw his budding rose 
So rich in beauty and perfume, 
The promise of a Mrer bloom. 
Than even the careless eye must trace 
In Fatmeh's childish form and face. 
Her large black eye with its clear ray 
Spoke of near kinship to the Bey, 
Yet tempered were its rising flashes 
By the long drooping silken lashes. 
That o'er those orbs transparent hung, 
And down their trembling shadows flung. 
Like willow-boughs that fringe a lake, 
And its pure sheen less dazzling make. 
The ebon arches o'er them bent 
Were true as Giotto's hand could paint. 



36 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

In her dark, heavy tresses shone 

A burnished light, as if the sun 

Had softly kissed the glossy hair, 

And left his golden radiance there ; 

Proving that gleam, so strange inwrought 

In the deep twilight of her braids, 

From a Circassian mother caught, 

With curls as bright as Saxon maids. 

But she is gone ; the fairy child. 

Half passionate, half angel-mild, 

No kin doth know, save him who now i 

So gently smooths her snowy brow. 

And next an ancient nurse she loves, 

And then her song-birds, flowers and doves. 

At first she little marks the crowd 

Of captives chained and sorrow-bowed, 

(For she was wont from infancy 

The witness of such scenes to be,) 

And with impatience ill-repressed, 

Waits for the troop to be dismissed, 



TUNIS-THE-WHITE. 37 

That she may fill the pacha's ear 

With prattle fathers love to hear. 

But as the Bey, with rapid sign, 

Drew one by one from the sad line 

Tor his own thrall, a look she cast 

Curious, scarce pitying, as they passed. 

Until her full dilating gaze 

A sudden earnestness betrays ; 

For lo, a youth with sunny locks, 

And eyes whose humid azure mocks 

The dewy violet's purest shade, 

Attracts the wondering little maid. 

Of bearing bold, of stature high, 

With sword-cuts fresh on brow and breast. 

Though sorrow dimmed his dreamy eye, 

His manly lip was firm comprest. 

Oft from old Gerda had she heard, — 

And much the tale her fancy stirred, — 

That in the cold and distant North, 

Land of her foster-mother's birth, 
2* 



38 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Were men as any maiden fair, 

With ruddy cheeks and golden hair, 

And eyes whose depths of cloudless blue 

Might rival Afric's sky in hue, 

Yet never form of grander mould 

Than theirs, nor heart more true and bold. 

No sooner did her quick eye fall 

Upon the prisoner fair and tall, 

Than straight she thinks of Gerda's home, 

And questions if he thence doth come, 

Nor rests, till with sweet childhood's art, 

She has learned all they can impart. 

' The Christian youth was from the North, 

Melleff his name ; ' she rushes forth 

To tell her nurse, with thoughtless joy. 

Of the strange blue-eyed captive boy. 



CANTO III. 

THE TIDINGS. 

On Amroom are sunshine and summer to-day, 
And it seems less lone and drear ; 

The islanders gather in heaps their hay, 
Their hope for the coming year. 

And father and mother and youth and maid, 

All join in the common toil ; 
Earnest their work and the words that are said,- 

Mirth flies from so rude a soil. 

And ever a shadow yet graver still 
O'er each laborer's face doth pass, 

As he sendeth a glance toward yonder hill 
Where shivers the tufted grass. 



40 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

There, seemingly heedless of all around, 

With the sea-damps on his cheek, 
Stands Wolfe — lo, he turns toward the new-mown ground, 

And beckons as he would speak ! 

" To-morrow's the sabbath, the day of rest," 

Said the old man grave and mild, 
" Your hay, if with sunshine again we're blest. 

Will make as it lieth piled. 

" Ye may sleep to-night without care or fear ; 

I will watch the wind and tide ; 
Should they threaten your harvest, ye shall hear 

My w^arning echo wide." 

The labor is ended, and one by one 

They go to their quiet homes ; 
From the snowy flocks each calleth his own, 

Ere the misty darkness comes. 



THE TIDINGS. 4:1 

Then climbing the mound that lifteth their cot 

From the low and tide-washed sward, 
At peace with themselves, and blessing their lot, 

They draw round the evening board. 

Though coarse the loaf that is broken here. 

And it formeth, day by day. 
With curds from the flock, their only cheer 

Yet murmur nor want know they. 

Now meekly, but clear, from each lowly shed 

Ascendeth the hynm, and the prayer ; 
The simple rite done, and the ' good-night ' said, 

The household to rest doth repair. 

And well may they slumber, so deep the repose ; 

For there is nor sight nor sound, 
Save the moon above, that so ruddy rose, 

And the sea low moaning round. 



42 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 



But while those evenmg hymns were sent 
Heavenward, one voice of deep lament 
And supplication from that sod 
Wailed upward to the throne of God. 
Wolfe of the Knoll upon the shore, 
With searching eye, was seen no more ; 
No more upon the fitful breeze 
His locks of silver rose and fell, 
Eestless as on those heaving seas 
The crested billows sink and swell. 
The promised watchman of the night, 
That late stood calm on yonder height. 
Now on his lowly pallet lies 
With breaking heart and burning eyes. 
This eve the fatal tidings gave 
That Melleff was the heathen's slave. 
The pastor, first to learn, must show 
The hapless father all his woe. 



THE TIDINGS. 43 

Dread task ! and now in vain he tries 
To assuage that grief — the old man cries : 
" Nay, leave me here with God alone, 
Till I can say, ' His will be done ! ' " 



The dawn is cloudless, the summer-smi shines 

Again on the grateful isle ; 
They may leave their hay till the day declines. 

To worship their God, the while. 

And early they gather, with Avilling feet. 

At their humble place of prayer ; 
In simple attire, and with reverence meet. 

The old and the young are there. 

The service is read, and the preacher takes 
The word that they wait to hear — 

Hark ! whence is the threatening sound that breaks 
From without on his startled ear ? 



44 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

" My children, God sendeth the flood ! away, 

And secure your whiter store ! 
His blessing be with you — we'll meet to pray 

Again when our work is o'er." 

They fly to the meadows ; the tide swells fast, 
But something there's time to save ! 

The share of their faithful pastor, at least, 
They'll snatch from the greedy wave. 

In vain he urgeth to care for their own. 
The strength of his well-tried arm, — 

For no ! they will toil in his field alone, 
Till its math is safe from harm. 

Must the rest be lost ? strain every nerve, 

For the hungry wave is nigh ! 
Brief is the moment, yet still it may serve — 

How from heap to heap they fly ! 



THE TIDINGS. 45 

And higher, still higher, upon the land 

Doth the angry ocean chafe — 
With a smile of triumph the islanders stand, 

Their precious harvest is safe ! 

O'er the meadows a briny sea doth flow, 

But baffled, its tides decrease ; 
And pastor and people once more may go 

To the house of God in peace. 

Again they are taught from his holy word. 

Again they praise and they pray. 
And with glowing hearts do they bless the Lord 

For the mercies of the day. 

But last, and earnester still, are the prayers 

That they for the father pour — 
That God would remember his hoary hairs. 
And his captive child restore ! * 



* Although the people are very devout, they allow themselves to be in- 
terrupted even in divine service by the approach of a tide which threatens 



46 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

The holy sabbath rites are o'er, 
And through the consecrated door, 
With voices hushed, the shepherds pour. 
The weary pastor, only, turns 
Not homeward yet ; his spirit yearns 
To soothe the wretched father reft 
Of the last hope that time had left. 
Still in the narrow porch he stands. 
His eye o'ers weeps the ebb-land wide. 
Then of the westering sun demands 
How soon returns the treacherous tide. 
Another hour — his wary foot 



their hay-crop, and they then rush to the fields in their Sunday garments. 
A Hallig preacher told me he had once just began his sermon, when he 
observed a movement in the congregation. One of the people soon came 
up the pulpit steps, and, pulling him by the cassock, whispered, " Pastor, 
the water is coming ! " He therefore dismissed the congregation, request- 
ing them to return to the church after the work was ended, and went with 
them to the meadows. In about three hours they secured their hay, and 
met again at the church, to thank God for the saving of their only source 
of income. 

In the island of Helgoland, the arrival of the snipes authorizes the in- 
terruption of worship. When the flocks alight, no time must be lost ; and 
if the watchman calls at the church door, " Herr, pastor, de snipp is do ! " 
*' Pastor, the snipes are here ! " the clergyman breaks off the service. — 
Kolil Ins. u. Marsch. I. 325. 



THE TIDINGS. 47 

May he not trust upon the beach, 
That leads so shortly to the cot 
His eager heart makes haste to reach ? 
He'll swiftly cross the waves' dark track, 
No threatening sea-mists warn him back. 

The doubtful soil he now doth tread, 
So late the refluent ocean's bed. 
What change was here ! an hour before, 
No sound except the tide's deep roar. 
No life save what its bosom bore. 
Now man's weak step is tracking free 
The footprints of the mighty sea ! 
A thousand channels, pearled with foam. 
Are rippling toward their briny home ; 
And countless forms of life, sea-born, 
Left by their parent wave forlorn, 
Lie struggling on the slimy strand. 
Foes gathering fast on every hand. 
With a sharp cry the swooping gull 



48 WOLFE or THE KNOLL. 

Drops on his prey ; in the still pool 
Dips the sea-swallow swift and light, 
Then nestward takes his happy flight. 
The rain-bird, pressed with hunger fell, 
Tears the poor muscle from its shell, 
And still new flocks are hurrying there, 
The transitory spoil to share. 
Far to the west, the eye may mark 
Where, leaning low upon its side, 
Lieth the fisher's helpless bark, 
And passive waits the coming tide.* 

Full oft the zealous man of God 
That wild and wasting shore has trod, 
And well he knows each changing phase 
That home of poverty displays. 
Yet doth it seem as strange to-night, 
As on the well-remembered day, 
When first before his straining sight 

* Staring, De Bodem van Nederland, I. 231, gives a very picturesque 
description of the flats at low-tide.. 



THE TIDINGS. 49 

Its dreamlike desolation lay. 

What years of toil and sacrifice 

Between him and that moment rise ! * 

Yet time that moment doth defy, 

A fragment of eternity. 

As then, he sees the eager crowd, 

Half hidden by a misty shroud, 

In costume quaint, press to the beach ; 

Once more the friendly hand they reach, 

Once more, with childlike speech and smile, 

They bid him welcome to their isle. 

He sees his meek, young wife, again 

Covered with changeful blushes, when 

They hail her by the tender name 

Of 'mother,' f and her blessing claim. 

Now to the cottage, garnished fair 

For the new pastor, they prepare 



* For an account of the arrival of a Hallig preacher in his parish, see 
Appendix V. 

t The pastor's wife is always called mother, and they say to her, " We 
have come to invite mother to our christening, if mother has no objection." 

o 



50 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

His little household store to bear, 
And now his willing feet they guide 
To the near church, their only pride. 
Once more, from that same chapel mound, 
He marks the dreary prospect round, 
With anxious heart and wondering eye. 
Here must he live — perhaps must die. 

But o'er his thoughts thus backward cast. 
Behold, a sudden change hath past, 
For, by the law mysterious led 
That links extremes, his fancy flies 
From the low flats around him spread, 
To lands where mountains pierce the skies. 
The everlasting Alps she shows 
Shaking from their o'erburdened brows 
The crushing avalanche, that falls 
In thunder down their rocky walls. 
She pointeth from the idle boat 
To the bold hunter, whose winged foot 
Pursues the chamois' headlong flight. 



THE TIDINGS. 51 

O'er rock and rift, from height to height. 
The tangled sea-grass, coarse and dank, 
Is lost in flowery meadows bright ; 
No more a gray horizon blank, 
But fringing forests, bound his sight. 
The turbid channel's bitter stream 
Hath vanished in that happy dream. 
And lo, before the wanderer's soul 
Sweet floods of living crystal roll, 
And laughing cataracts madly leap, 
Girt with a rainbow, down the steep, 
From crag to crag — such as with joy 
To fulness blessed him, when a boy. — 
That boyhood, with its dear delights, 
The days half labor and half play, 
The fireside full that crowned the nights — 
The starting tear he cannot stay, 
So plain he sees the loving forms 
That blessed him, when he turned away 
To seek this cheerless isle of storms. 



52 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Hark ! dost not hear the hoarse wave break 
Upon tlie shore ? wake, dreamer, wake ! 
He starts, as from a heavy sleep ; 
He sees the broadening channels deep 
Weaving full fast their w^atery net 
Around his thoughtless, lagging feet. 
Then shot an icy shudder through 
His frame — ' wife, children, leave them so, 
Alone upon this wretched sod ! 
Can this be, then, thy will, O God 1 ' 
A moment brief, with horror fraught. 
Flashed by, then came a calmer thought ; 
' He that hath made can still sustain, 
Nor needs thy aid, O mortal vain ! ' 
His heart grows still, the dread is j^ast, 
Fear's palsying fetters broken through ; 
Toward the near cot he boundeth fast. 
And fast the hissing waves pursue. 
In vain — they cannot reach him now ! 
High on the cottage-mound he stands, 



THE TIDINGS. 53 

Wipes the thick drops from his hot brow, 
And lifts to Heaven his trembling hands. 
Yet from his lips no sound there fell — 
What words for such a moment meet, 
When the whole heart doth upward swell, 
In one full cloud of incense sweet ! 
One backward glance he shrinking cast 
Upon the fearful peril past,* 
Then, turning to the roof of thatch. 
He slowly lifts the simple latch. 

O, grief ! whose heart is then so clean. 
Whose hands in innocence so washed, 
That he thy sacred form hath seen, 
And stood before thee unabashed ! 
To thy great altar who dares bring, 
For offering, an unholy thing ! 



* When the tide returns suddenly, persons walking on the flats during 
the ebb are exposed to be cut off from the islands and drowned. Distress- 
ing accidents of this kind are not uufrequeut. 



54: WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Only the soul's best gifts can meet 
Acceptance at thine awful feet. 

So felt the jDastor, as he stood 

Speechless beside the man of woe, 

And grasped his withered hand, nor could 

The sympathetic tear forego. 

On those three friends of old he thought, 

Whose seven days' silence better spake 

Than all the empty words they brought, 

Which did but keener anguish wake. 

God's voice alone such sorrow hears ; 

Of man, it asks not truths, but tears. 

He lifts a silent prayer on high — 

Lo, suddenly the stricken sire 

Looks up, his pale lips part, his eye 

Doth burn, as with a j)rophet's fire, 

And his full words swell, clear and strong, 

As chorus of triumphal song. 



THE TIDINGS. - 55 

" The Lord will surely visit him, 
And bring back his captivity ! 
Yea, though these eyes with age are dim, 
They shall this great salvation see ! " 



CANTO IV. 



THE HAREEM. 



Thank God, the lingering sun hath set at last ! 

The daily task is o'er ; 
Another long, long day of exile past ! 

Oh, that there were no more ! 

What though yon glorious western sky cloth blaze 

With purple, gold, and green, 
While the east trembles with those opal rays 

By northern eyes unseen ! 

What though from the transparent heavens so clear 

The stars are stooping low ! 
The greeting of their smile, that comes so near, 

Seems but to mock my woe. 



THE HAEEEM. 57 

Ye northern skies, your light is gray and cold, 

But dearer far to me 
Than all the splendors that I now behold 

In heaven, eartli, air and sea ! 

Thou isle, where innocence and peace so long 

Have kept their holiest rest, 
Forgive me that, a child, I did thee wrong, 

Asking a soil more blest ! 

Oft by some stinted shrub 1 pensive stood, 

And dreamed of giant trees 
That proudly soared aloft, and swung abroad 

Their branches to the breeze. 

Now o'er my head a leafy roof doth rise 

For sinless Eden meet, . 
Dropping its golden fruit as from the skies, 

In clusters at my feet. 



58 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

But one poor bush that decks our cottage-mound, 

My mother's constant care, 
Than all these palms with grace and beauty crowned, 

Were to my eye raiore fair. 

Here brightly blooming flowers of countless dyes 

Wide gardens gayly paint ; 
Sadly I view them with unjoying eyes, 

Till with their perfume faint. 

Oh, give me but for these the pale wild rose 

Found once in many a day 
Among our downs, in some deep fold hid close. 

Where childhood loved to stray. 

Cease, cease thy mournful plaint, O nightingale, 

Singing in yonder tree ! 
Not half so dear thy song as the familiar wail 

Of my own native sea. 



THE HAEEEM. 59 

Ye sparkling fountains, that with patient flow 

Feed all these shining rills, 
Your ceaseless murmur, melancholy, low, 

My soul with anguish fills. 

For in your voice I hear the unending moan 

Of father, mother mild. 
Who now sit broken-hearted and alone, 

Despairing for their child. 

O God ! and must I never more behold 

My blessed island home ! 
Ne'er comfort more my parents now grown old 

With waiting till I come ! 

Last night methought my mother softly pressed 

Her hand upon my head ; 
She looked not sad, but on her lips did rest 

The smile worn by the dead. 



60 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

O mother, mother, if thou dost indeed 

Stand by the throne of God, 
From thy poor captive child, with Him, oh, plead, 

That He will take life's load ! 

Such were the thoughts that shook the breast . 

Of Melleff as he sat at rest. 

Leaning against a stately palm 

In the soft twilight's hallowed calm. 

Within the garden he had toiled 

All day, and now from work assoiled, 

His whole soul flies to the far north, 

To the dear sod that gave him birth. 

His heart no hope of ransom cheers, 

Full well he knows if parents' tears 

Could pay the 2)rice, he soon were free. 

But ah, their fatal poverty ! 

Daughter of wealth ! a moment stay, 
Ere to the dance thou haste away ! 



THE HAREEM. (}] 

One little stone that none would miss 
From the bright band that clasps thy hair-^ 
So many more are shining there — 
Would lightly purchase all the bliss 
Of home and freedom for the boy, 
And fill his ftxther's house with joy. 
Thou canst not give if? go thy way, 
Tread fiist the festive measure gay, 
Yet oh ! look to thy soul, ere He, 
The prisoner's friend, in anger says, 
" What thou didst not for one of these 
That didst thou also not for me ! " 

From the proud Christian maiden's frown. 
To misbelieving Fatmeh turn, 
Who, from the lattice of her bower, 
Observes the captive at this hour 
So woful sad. " Gerda," she cries. 
With look and tone that speak surprise, 
" Why doth the Christian slave still weep? 



62 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Doth Mustapha, then, fail to keep 

My father's oft enjoined behest, 

That he should lack nor food nor rest ? 

Thou, too, when first the tale I told 

Of Melleflf and his hair of gold. 

And thou didst go to prove my word, 

With pity deep thy heart seemed stirred, 

Nor from thy questions couldst thou leave ; 

Wherefore now suffer him to grieve 1 " 

Not southern night, descending fast, 
Could shade so dark and sudden cast 
As o'er old Gerda's features passed — 
Then with a sigh, she answered grave, 
" Tears are the pastime of the slave ! " 

Young Fatmeh on her face still gazed. 
With questioning eye and thought amazed. 
" Do all slaves weep '? " at length she cried ; 
" Not all " — the aged nurse replied, 



THE HAREEM. 63 

" For some so long have worn the cham, 
And sighed and wept and prayed in vain 
For freedom, home and friends, that they 
At last grown helpless, old and gray, 
Dry joyfully each burning tear 
To see the welcome grave so near." 

The loving child her white arms flung 
Around her nurse, and sobbing hung 
On her old neck — " Say, Gerda, say, 
^Youldst thou thy Fatmeh leave to-day 
For home and friends so fir away 1 " 

" Child of my soul ; * nay ! for I've none. 
Those that I loved are long forgone. 
For all the North hath left, thy kiss. 
My gentle child, I would not miss. 
Of all my kin, a single heart 
Still beats, and his a bitter part — 

* A common Oriental epithet for an adopted child. 



64 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Or do I dream — so far from youth 
And joy removed that dreams seem truth ! 
But such sad talking let us leave — 
I promised thee a tale this eve." 

•' First from my hair these pearls unbind ; 
Thou say'st they are of wealth untold ; 
In the bazaars, couldst thou not find 
One that for them would give me gold 1 " 

" Thou hast thy mother's heart, fond child ! 
But speak no more, thy thought is wild. 
List to me, rather, while I tell 
What once an Arab maid befell." 

" Nay, Gerda ! but when late we passed 
Where o'er the dead the aloe blooms, 
While they beneath are sleeping fast — 
Thou bad'st me mark, among the tombs, 
One called the Christian lady's grave — 
Now tell me, wns she, too, a slave ? " 



THE HAREEM. 65 



THE TOMB OF THE CHRISTIAN PRINCESS.* 

Long ago a noble lady dwelt in furthest Frankistan, 

Of whose wondrous beauty tidings to remotest kingdoms 

ran ; 
Princes sued her royal father for his peerless daughter's hand 
All in vain ; the heart- free Ellen would not hear of marriage- 
band. 

Once adown the garden walked she, fresh as Emily the 

bright 
Seen, as chants the English rhymer, for the first time by 

Arcite ; 
And, like her, she plucked the roses, ere the sun had kissed 

away 
Half the tears they shed in darkness for the absent lord of 

day. 

* " The Tomb of the Christian Princess" is founded on a popular legend 
related bv Prax in the Bevue de V Orient, for November, 1849. 



66 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Through the leafy aisles she floated, checking her own carol 
sweet, 

While the morning hymn of nature rose so holy and com- 
plete ; 

And with such a smile she listened to each silvery-warbling 
bird. 

Well it seemed she knew the meaning of the joyous notes 
she heard. 



Now the outer wall she reaches, where so close the ivy clings, 
But a garland scarcely snatches, ere a wicket open swings, 
And a wretched troop, whose ankles bear the badge of 

heaviest woe. 
Through the gateway roughly driven, to their daily task- 
work go. 

All unseen the princess glided to the laurel's thickest shade. 
On the turbaned captives gazing, half with wonder, half 
afraid. 



THE HAKEEM. 67 

Long she stands, as if enchanted — what has wrought that 

sudden spell ? 
In her eye are love and pity — is it Freya's miracle '^ * 

Toward the palace then she turned her, but with languid foot 

and slow, 
Minding now nor bird nor blossom, nor the bees that mur 

mur low. 
Some new thought her soul oppresses — how an hour hath 

changed that face ! 
Late there shone but careless pleasance, now misease usurps 

its place. 

Paler grew the gentle Ellen as the listless days rolled by, 
Till the sad cheer of his daughter caught the troubled father's 

eye. 
" Say, my child, what is't that grieves thee ? where the glad 

some step and smile, 
With which thou wert wont to meet me, and my weary 

cares beguile ? 

* lu the Scandinavian mythologj, Freya is the goddess of love. 



68 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

" Weep not for me, loving father, but so thickly comes my 

breath, 
On my heart is such a pressure — it must be the hand of 

death ! 
Ere I go, one boon I pray thee, for the love thou bearest me, 
For the sake of blessed Mary, set thy Moorish captives free ! 

*' There is one they call Abdallah, royal is his step and eye — 
Once he was the lord of Tunis, thou hast marked his bearing 

high. 
And hast read in every gesture, he was Allah's slave, not 

thine — 
When I lie beside my mother, give him from my hand this 

line." 

And the sleep no sorrow breaketh then the lovely Ellen slept, 

And the promise made her dying faithfully the father kept. 

Soon the Arabs o'er the desert their fleet steeds are spur- 
ring fast. 

High the yellow sand-clouds tossing, like the Simoom's 
smothering blast. 



' THE HAKEEM. 69 

But before the prince Abdallah sought again his native land, 
He had read the faint lines written by the passing maiden's 

hand. 
" I have loved thee, noble stranger, but not better than my 

faith, 
Lo the proof ! I give thee freedom, and remain alone with 

death." 

" Go thou to the tomb that holds me, from my hand a casket 

take, 
And the jewels that thou findest — for the Christian princess' 

sake — 
Buy with them the Christian captives that among thy people 

mourn ; 
Let them to their home and kindred and their fathers' God 

return ! " 

Straight he seeks the narrow chamber, sacred to fair Ellen's 

rest; 
But what tongue may speak the wonder that affrays his 

startled breast ! 



70 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

There no Christian maid reposes, but a Moslem stiff and cold, 
And a rosary wrought in Mecca fast the rigid fingers hold.* 

As he stood amazed,' bewildered, words that came not 

through the ear 
To Abdallah's soul were whispered, " Take the chaplet, do 

not fear ! " 
Hastily the beads he snatches from the dead man's grasp, 

and flies, 
On the pinions love had furnished, to the land of cloudless 

skies. 

Soon he trod the streets of Tunis — -but she knew her lord 

no more — 
And to Zeitun's mosque he hastened, Allah's Oneness to 

adore. 
As he stooped, the dusty sandal at the sacred door to leave, 
Suddenly a hand ungentle seized him rudely hj the sleeve. 

* The Mohammedan uses a rosary in enumerating the repetitions oc- 
curring in his prayers. This rosary is composed of ninety-nine beads ol 
wood, coral, or seeds, and is separated into three equal divisions by other 
beads of a peculiar form. 



THE HAREEM. 71 

" Whence hast thoii that chaplet, stranger ? by the Pro- 
phet's head I swear, 

'Tis my father's — tombs to rifle, misbeliever, dost thou 
dare 1 " 

To the judge they drag Abdallah ; straight the cadi gives 
command 

To undo the vault sepulchral, and around the grave they 
stand, 

But fall back in speechless terror — there, instead of Moslem 

shorn, 
Lieth calm a smiling lady, fair as Houri heavenly born ! 
[n her hand she held a casket, and her face shone like the 

day 
For a moment when Abdallah gently took the trust away. 

Long he listened hoping, praying, for some sound of coming 

breath. 
But in vain — fair was the sleeper, yet she slept the sleep of 

death. 



T2 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Soflt he spread the turf above her, set the aloe on her breast — 
' Had not Moonkir shown her favor, since he brought her 
there to rest ? ' 

Then Abdallah did her bidding, and the Christian slaves dis- 
missed ; 

Yet through life he left not weeping for the love he so had 
missed. 

Twice two hundred times the date-tree proud hath donned 
her ruby crown. 

Since beside the stranger-lady, old and worn he laid him down. 

Still the story is remembered, and they say the princess lies 
All unchanged in her first beauty, but secure from mortal eyes. 
From the tomb a light proceedeth, that would blind witli 

deadly pain, 
Such as guards the Prophet's daughter from the gazer's 

glance profane.* 

* A common superstition among the Mohammedans ascribes this 
miraculous power, not only to the tomb of the Prophet himself, but to that 
of "the Lady Fatmeh," his daughter, as well. 



CAISTTO V. 

THE EANSOM. 

While thus his wretched child doth bear 
The day's long toil, the night's unrest, 
By strangers pitied and oppressed, 
How doth it wath the father fare 1 
We saw but lately, when his soul 
Was dark with woe, God's angel roll 
The stone of his dead hopes away, 
And bid him rise to toil and pray ! 
And we, perchance, may find him still 
Waiting upon his wonted hill. 

Yes, there he stands, but not alone ; 

A silent group is gathered near, 
4 



74 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

In every face a sorrow shown, 
In every eye a glistening tear, 
And o'er the gray and rocking sea 
They look as earnestly as he. 
For on the horizon's distant verge 
Beyond the crescent wall of foam — 
Thrown np by the untiring surge — 
That bends around their island-home, 
Lighted by sunset's lustrous smile, 
They still can see a snowy pile 
Of canvas like a summer cloud ; * 
It bears the son beloved away 
From the poor mother, old and bowed. 
Who now with pallid lips doth pray ; 
It bears the husband from the arms 
Of the lone wife here left to weep. 
And from his first-born's baby-charms 
Now on its mother's breast asleep ; 

* See Appendix VI. 



THE EANSOM. 75 

It bears the lover from the maid, 

To whom his only vows are given, 

And from w^hose cheek the blood doth fade, 

All backward to the full heart driven. 



O, Poverty, thy rule" is stern ! 
'Tis hard beneath thy frown to live. 
And yet from thee thy children learn 
The noblest lesson life can give, 
The grace most glorious in the eyes 
Of God and man — self-sacrifice ! 
When He, the Holy, came to show 
The way our mortal feet should go, 
If, one with Him, our souls would be 
From torturing self forever free. 
Through thy low vale His footsteps led, 
On thy cold lap His sacred head 
Was wont to find less certain rest 
Than beast in lair, or bird in nest. 



76 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

These women, clad in sable Aveeds,* 
That stand upon the hillock here, 
While o'er the wave yon vessel speeds 
Freighted with all they hold most dear — 
Think not they need our pitying tears ! 
Though want may force the loved away, 
And they be left for weary years, 
Yet they have learned to trust and pray. 
Soon each will seek her quiet cot, 
And there to God, on bended knee, . 
Unmurmuring at her lonely lot, 
Commit the wanderer o'er the sea ; 
Then peaceful sleep, then patient rise 
To labors fresh, fresh sacrifice. 

Even now the last dark form is gOiie, 
And Wolfe, the aged, stands alone. 
More wasted still that stooping fi-ame, 
The pallor on his brow the same. 

* The women of these islands always wear a mourning dress while 
their friends are at sea. 



THE EA15-S0M. 

And yet since first we saw that eye 
A clearer beam it sure hath caught ; 
It turns not now so dreamily, 
As if uncertain what it sought ! 
But firmly, consciously doth rest 
Upon that cloudlet in the west. 
And well may he with hope and prayer 
Follow the barque fast fading there. 
The frail thread of her fate is one 
With that of his unhappy son. 



He rose, when God said to the night 
Of his despair ; ' Let there be light ! ' 
And gathered all his little store 
Of hoarded wealth to count it o'er. 
One precious chain of shining gold — 
His mother's gift, and she had told 
How many generations past 
Had worn the relic, she the last. 



77 



78 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

He prized it for her sake, how much ! 

But at this moment not even such 

A thought could move. He saw with joy 

How far 'twould aid to save his boy. 

Another ! ah, but this had laced 

The bodice green his Mary wore 

The hour when first a wife she blessed 

The home that knoweth her no more ; 

And on her happy bosom lay 

Those bright medallions, hanging still 

Upon the links they graced that day — 

Slowly the tears his sad eyes fill ; 

But on our isle even grief is calm ; 

An instant held he in his palm 

The priceless chain, and then beside 

His mother's, laid this of his bride. 

His little flock must now be sold, 

His household stuff all turned to gold ; 

The friendly neighbors bring their gains 

To swell the sum he thus obtains. 



THE KANSOM. 79 

Into this treasury too was cast 

The widow's mite, nor came she last. 

The poor lorn creature we have seen 

At sunset on the sandy shore 

Brought all the riches that had been 

Her own, and first her mother's dower; 

A chain — our island maidens' pride — 

And rings of antique form, beside 

A silver watch her son had brought 

From some strange land, she knew not what. 

" Take these, good neighbor ! I am reft 

Of sons and daughters ; none are left 

To claim them when He calls me home, 

And where I go these cannot come." 

The goodly ransom, now all told, 

A hand within that ship doth hold — 

A trusty hand, pledged o'er the sea 

To bear it safe to Barbary. 

Alas! old man, who watchest now 

With chastened joy and pious vow 



80 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Yon point that, while we speak, away 
Has melted in the twilight gray, 
Thy Gracious Maker hides from thee. 
In love, the things which yet must be ! 
And we — were it not well to look 
No further now in Fate's dark book, 
But turn a backward glance the while 
On the past fortunes of our isle ! 



Stand we by Wolfe upon the knoll, and turn us to the sea ; 

There, where the waves like breakers roll in foam so wild 
and free, 

Stood the first church the old man knew, though parish re- 
cords say 

That many a goodlier one before the tide had swept away. 

Even yet the shepherds deem they hear, of a still Easter 
morn, 

The chiming of the bells full clear from the deep waves up- 
borne. 



THE EANSOM. 81 

And that at midniglit when they watch by some dear pass- 
ing soul, 
The listening ear may faintly catch a low and muffled toll. 
'Tis said, too, when the sea is calm, that ofttimes may be 

seen 
Not only the lost house of God, but buried homes of men ; 
That still upright beneath the flood as fair to view they stand 
As when they rose upon the isle, fresh from the builder's 

hand.* 
But to my tale. In that first church, upon Wolfe's infant 

head 
With simple rite, the man of God Christ's covenant waters 

shed. 
There with his parents, when a boy, from week to week he 

went 
To pray for pardon of his sins through him whom God hath 

sent. 



* It is reported of many of the sunken hamlets, that at times their 
church-bells are heard to ring beneath the water, and that in still weather, 
theh- houses can be discerned in the deep. The bells of a sunken village 
in North Friesland are said to chime on Easter morning. 

4* 



82 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

There, men and angels witnessing, he stood in manhood's 

pride, 
And wedded with a soul-deep vow his orphan Iceland bride. 

But all these years the wasting shore was crumbling, day 

by day ; 
With purpose sure, the cruel foe aneared his trembling prey. 
Each art the island knew was tried the hallowed house to 

save; 
In vain — one night of wind and tide, it sunk beneath the 

wave. 
Sadly at dawn they gathered there to see the ruin wrought ; 
The fearful sight to every heart a painful shudder brought. 
The church was gone, the churchyard, too, alas ! all washed 

away, 
There scattered on the moaning beach, the broken coffins lay ; 
Some were still hanging to the bank from which the soil had 

slid, 
The mouldering skeleton within seen through the shattered 

lid; 



THE RANSOM. 83 

And bones, that loving friends had laid full tenderly to rest, 
Swept far away, were rudely rocked on the rough ocean's 

breast. 
Shocked into silence, lo ! that group a moment fixed as 

stone ! 
Then sudden every bosom heaves with a half-stifled groan. 
Not one but sees some sleeping friend torn from the quiet 

bed, 
Where he had hoped to lie in peace till God should wake 

the dead. 
The parent mourns the child anew ; children for parents 

w^eep ; 
And spouse for spouse — their treasures safe not e'en the 

grave will keep. 
Poor Wolfe sought vainly, as he held his trembling Mary 

fast. 
For the pale sod that covered all save MellefF, now their 

last.* 

* The cemeteries are often washed away, and the bodies of the dead 
are not unfrequently removed to a more secure resting-place when such a 
catastrophe threatens. 



84r WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

At length the pastor mildly spoke; " little flock," he said, 
" Wherefore are ye cast down, and why are ye disquieted ? 
The body that we sow is not the body that shall be — 
So writes the apostle unto whom was shown the mystery — 
With such a form as pleaseth Him our God shall clothe His 

saints, 
He needeth not these poor remains — cease then your vain 

complaints ! 
Already round his radiant throne the Lord's redeemed 

stand, 
Nor fire nor flood nor death nor hell shall pluck them from 

His hand. 
Sorrow not o'er these wave-washed bones, but rather let us 

pray 
For everlasting freedom from the galling bonds of clay ! " 
They prayed ; then to their common toil with lighter hearts 

returned, 
But long and deeply for their church, pastor and people 

mourned. 



THE EANSOM. 



85 



One anxious thought filled every mind— anew how should 

they build ? 
No block of stone, no beam of wood, their naked soil doth 

yield; 
All must be brought from other shores, nor would, for 

years, suffice 
The produce of their little fold to pay the needful price. 
One only source of gain, beside, their barren isle can boast ; 
When mighty winds, for many days, the angry waves have 

tossed, 
Till the vast chambers of the deep are shaken to their base, 
And then the weary sea retires to his accustomed place. 
Along his track, retreating, lo ! the sparkling amber spread,* 
Kent and cast upward by the storm from ocean's jewelled 

bed! 
Here the pure drops long ages gone were known as Freya's 

tears. 
And still, passed doAvn from sire to son, the shining treasure 

bears 

* See Appendix YII. 



86 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

The ancient name, though long forgot the tale from whence 

it sprmig — 
The memory of Odur's spouse has perished even from song ! 
Yet not less valued than of old is the fair merchandise, 
And for our frugal islanders their choicest stores it buys. 
All these they gladly will resign ; henceforth it is their care 
To consecrate the wealth so gained to rear a house of prayer. 
A few short years of sacrifice their lost church may replace ; 
The thought sheds joy on every heart, a smile on every face. 
Whene'er the warring elements exhausted sleep once more. 
Eager they seek the glittering spoil along the dripping shore. 
Some search the channel's oozy bed left for a moment dry, 
While others higher on the beach a safer fortune try. 
And some with bolder foot press close on the receding flood, 
Still watchful lest their faithless foe turn back in angry 

mood. 
Children o'erleap the narrow creeks, light bounding to and 

fro, 
With panting breath and burning cheeks, each new found 

prize to show. 



THE EANSOM. 87 

Their quest they cease not till the tide, repenting his retreat, 
Turns suddenly and towards their wharves drives them with 

flying feet. 
Then Avith glad hearts the glowing hoard they to the pastor 

bear, 
That he in their increasing store their modest joy may 

share. 

So months passed on, and all the gains thus gathered from 

the sea 
Formed still a treasury lighter far than their necessity. 
The autumn, too, came on apace, and they could meet no 

more 
To worship, where the church once stood, upon the open 

shore. 
Yet wintry tempests, gathering strength, might scatter on 

the strand 
The golden peltbles so desired with a more lavish hand. 
Such was the talk one cold gray morn, as they drew near 

the sea 



88 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Still hoarse with chafing all the night, though now no wind 

was free. 
A child's swift foot that blind pursued the eye's more dis- 
tant aim, 
Struck sharply ^on an iron ring that well might wonder 

claim. 
That child was MellefF, still the first when Fortune smiled 

or frowned, 
And ever for adventure strange o'er all the isle renowned. 
They dug, and lo ! a heavy box, strong and of curious form, 
Was lifted from the solid drift packed round it by the 

storm. 
They climbed the do^\'ns, and every shoal searched with a 

careful eye, 
Even to the horizon's utmost verge, where wrecks were wont 

to lie. 
Canvas nor mast nor hulk were there, and wasting rust told 

plain 
That long upon the lonely beach that ancient chest had 

lain. 



THE EANSOM. 89 

Great was the marvel, greater still ^Yllen on their dazzled sight 
Flashed all the riches hid within, the gold, the silver bright, 
So fairly wrought that many deemed they saw the precious 

hoard, 
That cunning dwarfs (as sagas tell) beneath the downs had 

stored.* 

They sent the tidings far and wide, but owner never came, 
Message or letter none were sent the costly prize to claim. 
Who knoweth but the same wild surf that here the chest 

had rolled. 
Choked into silence every voice that might its tale have 

told ? 
At length the glittering toys were sold. O ! what a joy to 

find 
The little church might now be built for which they so had 

pined. 
For greater safety from the sea, another site they chose 
Behind the downs, and rapidly the humble walls arose. 

* A similar incident actually occurred on one of these islands. 



90 WOLFE OF THE liNOLL. 

Years passed ; full many a wharf had bowed before the 

tyrant flood, 
And still unharmed by wind or wave that sanctuary stood. 
Yet, ah ! such changes time had wrought among the shifting 

downs, 
That in a foe till now unfeared a sure destruction frowns. 
In vain with tireless zeal they strive to avert the stern decree, 
Onward the mighty sandwave rolls resistless as the sea. 
Slowly it creepeth up the walls, it gathers round the door, 
Sifts through the casements' guarded seams, and thickly 

strews the floor. 
Long did they clear, from week to week, the swelling heaps 

away, 
Meeting within those hallowed courts each blessed sabbath 

day. 
But ever higher rose the sand, defying human strength ; 
It reached the seats, the pastor's desk, and choked the door 

at length. 



* For an account of a church buried in this way by the sand, see Ap- 
pendix VIII. 



THE RAl^SOM. 



91 



To a new entrance, thus enforced, a window they transform ; 
Still is the shelter of the roof more welcome than the storm. 
There at the patient pastor's feet gathered the little band 
Of tried and faithful worshippers, no cushion but the sand. 
There lifted they their hearts to Him who once in meekness 

made 
Himself the Son of man, and had not where to lay his head. 

O child of wealth ! the portals high of a cathedral pile 
Stand wide for thee, and thou dost sweep through the long 

pillared aisle, 
With dainty foot, and jewelled hand, in raiment rich and rare. 
To rest on swelling velvet soft, through a brief hour of 

prayer. 
Yet to have faith like one of these, if thou but knew its 

worth, 
Thou'dst gladly give thy place for his upon the dusty earth. 

And thou to whom the lines have fallen God's word to 
minister 



92 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

In pleasant places to the rich, of thine own soul have care ! 
See that thou miss not the bright crown of glory only worn 
By those svho first the bitter cross of sacrifice have borne. 
Oppressed with solitude and want, behold thy brother stand, 
Feeding with zeal the humble flock committed to his hand ! 
Possessed, it may be, of a mind as richly stored as thine, 
Gifted with kindling eloquence, w^here thought and grace 

combine. 
That well might challenge the applause of audience more fit, 
And draw admiring crowds to praise his wisdom and his 

wit : 
Yet, prompt to do his Master's will, he asks of man no meed^ 
Of such a stimulus to toil hast thou as little need ? 
Boldly against a nation's sin thou dost not spare to cry ; 
'Tis well ! God help thee ! lift thy voice in trumpet tones 

on high. 
Until our land repent her crimes ! — and yet who will not 

own 
'Tis easier far such war to w^age where thousands shoiit, 

" well done ! " 



THE EANSOM. 93 

Than thus, an exile from the world, in such a waste obscure, 
Deatli threatening in each rising gale, with patience to endure 
Privation, labor, loneliness, no witness to applaud, 
Save his own conscience and the eye, all-seeing, of his God. 

The autumn wind, that mournfully had sighed all day, sobbed 

still 
More loudly and grew passionate as night's gray shadows 

fell. 
Low mist-like clouds rolled rapidly over the evening sky, 
And a yet darker mask was seen through their thin drapery. 
So thick that neither moon nor stars could pierce it with a 

ray, 
Nor through its heavy folds had shot one beam of parting 

day. 
Like a tired beast of prey, for hours the sluggish sea had 

slept, 
And scarce would heed the driving winds that o'er its bosom 

swept. 



94 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

But wnen the gathering darkness came, its deep and sullen 
roar, 

More dreadful than the shrieking gale, shook all the trem- 
bling shore. 

Long, long, and fearful was the night, hut when, with languid 
smile 

And tardy wing, the morning rose upon the drenched isle, 

The winds were hushed ; not so the dash of the flir sound- 
ing sea. 

Toward which the anxious shepherds looked with kindly 
sympathy. 

Tliere, beating on a fital shoal, a noble vessel lay, 

And high above her stately decks was tossed the snow-white 
spray. 

A moment more, a sturdy boat, strong arms at every oar, 

Is flying toward the stranded ship where loud the breakers 
roar. 

Now, God be thanked ! the gallant craft is not a hopeless 
wreck ; 

The weary crew arc standing safe upon the sloping deck. 



THE RANSOM. 95 

With shouts they hail the barque that braves for them so 

wild a sea, 
Bold Wolfe, the pilot, pledged himself to set the vessel free 
At evening tide — so well he knew what change of wind was 

near — 
And bade the troubled mariners dismiss each anxious fear. 
At sunset rose the swelling tide, the breeze set from the 

land. 
Another hour, and the good ship was floated from the sand, 
And, wisely steered by him who knew the perils of that 

shore. 
Threaded the crooked channel safe, and stood to sea once 



Weeks passed — broad broken bands of ice behind the island 

stretch. 
So that however great the need, none might the mainland 

reach. 
Though want, disease and death draw nigh, succor they may 

have none. 



96 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Other than this poor sod affords, except from God alone.* 
And yet their childlike faith in Him forbids each anxious 

fear, 
For though they know their brethren far, they feel their 

Father near. 
With patient, but with longing hearts, they wait the coming 

spring ; 
Even to this barren wilderness new pleasures doth she bring. 
True, here she comes not garlanded with the bright flowers 

she loves, 
And drawn by throngs of singing birds, like Venus by her 

doves ; 
But smoother seas and brighter skies her gentle heralds are, 
And yet more welcome still the news she brings from friends 

afar. 



* In the autumn the single wharfs are often separated from each other 
by the tide, and in the winter, the ice sometimes cuts them off from the 
mainland for weeks together. The isolation of the Halligs is most deeply 
felt in case of sickness. They are then obliged to send across the oozy 
flats, a distance of twenty or thirty miles, for medical advice and attend- 
ance, but even this is possible only in favorable weather. — ■Weigelt,die 
Noi'dfriesischen Inseln. 20. 



THE EANSOM. 97 

Parents, whose hardy sons have sought their fortune on the 
deep, 

Maidens, whose lovers toil abroad while they must wait and 
weep, 

The pastor linked to the great world by every tender tie 

That binds the memory to the past — all these for tidings sigh. 

They come — alas 'tis ever so ! some Aveep while others smile ; 

Yet to the hand of "Wolfe was brought a joy for all the isle. 

The wealthy owner of the ship late stranded on this coast, 

And which but for his timely aid had surely there been lost, 

Such generous recompense has sent for succor promptly 
given, 

As well may serve to rear a house to the great God of 
Heaven. 

This his first thought. With clamorous tongue he pleads 
no special right. 

But in one purpose, with one voice, like brothers all unite. 

" The Lord hath touched the stranger's heart. How won- 
drous are his ways ! 

Another temple to His name with joyful hands we'll raise." 



98 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

'Twas done. Wild, desolating floods have o'er the island 
rolled 

Full oft since then, not sparing even the shepherd and his 
fold. 

That church still stands, and, to the eyes of those who wor- 
ship there, 

Its simple walls and humble spire are objects not less fair 

Than Zion's towers and bulwarks seemed to Israel's shep- 
herd king, 

When by her glorious beauty moved such strains of praise 
to sing. 



CANTO VI. 

THE CAEAVAN. 

Land of the pyramid ! land of the palm ! 
Fanning us now with thy breezes of balm, 
Lovely thou art, and yet stranger than fair ! 
Glamour is with thee, and whoso shall dare 
Look on thy beauty will know never more 
Rest, till the throb of his last pulse is o'er ! * 
Long since thy vassals, why shudder we then, 
Feeling thy breath on our foreheads again '? 
Angels of God ! that in nightly patrol 
Wheel round our planet from pole unto pole, 
Hovering now o'er yon desolate isle, 
Now where the date-groves of Barbary smile, 

* Niemand vvandelt unter Palmen uugestraft. 



100 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

There, whispering soft to the meek as they sleep, 

Here, frowning darkly on rol3bers that creep 

Forth in the midnight, dividing their prey — 

Do ye not sorrow to turn you away 

Thus, from the dwelling of peace, to the shore 

Echoing with tumult and strife evermore — 

Hither, where hearts through their pride have grown 

cold, 
Shrivelled and seared by the lust after gold ? 
Oh, not the brightness, that Israel's way 
Guided in glory by night and by day, 
Fired him with courage unflinching to bear 
Pains that here lightly for Mammon they dare ! 
Man's eager hand from that glittering fleece 
Fear cannot hold, nor sweet pity release ! 
Yet will we follow where Melleff', the slave, 
Pineth for home, and imploreth a grave. 

Behold Tunisia's towers once more, 
See through her Gate of Plenty pour 



THE CARAVAN. 101 

Camels and men, a ceaseless tide, 
First a dense line, then — spreading wide 
Like a full stream that doth o'erflow 
Its banks, and fill the vale below — 
They roll adown the rocky steep, 
And the wide olive-plains o'ersweep. 

To-day the merchant caravan * 
Its yearly march to far Soudan 
Begins. Beneath a flaming- sky 
Its long and perilous way doth lie 
O'er Sahara's boundless, pathless plains. 
Where w^ild, unchanging horror reigns. 
The adventurer, who shall safely reach 
Nigritia's border, thence may fetch — 
The price of trifles worthless nigh 
To all but the untutored eye. 



* The reader will find a fall account of the organization and march of 
the great caravans engaged in the Soudan trade, in Le Grand Desert ou 
Itincraire d'une Caravane du Sahara au pays des Ncgres, par Eugene Dau- 
mas, et Ausone de Chancel. Paris, 1848. 



102 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Or a few handfuls of the weed 
Scarce sanctioned 1:)y the Moslem creed — 
Treasures which kings would gladly own. 
'Neath sacks of gold his camels groan, — 
Those shining sands the Jinn have rolled 
From mountain caverns dark and cold, 
Down crystal streams to plains below, 
There in the tropic fires to glow ; 
Her plumes are from the ostrich rent, 
Nor spared the lordly elephant. 
Even man — his brother man — the pains 
Of death must feel, to swell his gains. 
Tribe against tribe doth lift the spear, 
None deems a trinket bought too dear. 
If but some wretched captive may 
The price with life-long service pay. 



* It was long a question among the doctors of the Mohammedan law 
whether tobacco was not virtually forbidden to the faithful, as an intox- 
icating drug. The use of tobacco was made a highly penal offence by 
some of the Turkish sultans. 



THE CARAVAN. 108 

Yet leave such thoughts, and mark how bright 

The landscape glows in morning light ! 

Oh, 'tis a wondrous show and fair, 

The living j^icture painted there ! 

All the \'ast crowd clad in a guise 

Strange to the Frank's unwonted eyes ; 

The scarlet fez, the white bernous, 

The gay keffieh floating loose, 

With its long fringes light and free 

By every breeze tossed gracefully ; 

The sash that in its brilliant folds 

The Arab's choicest treasures holds, 

His yataghan, with massive hilt, 

His heavy pistols richly gilt ; 

The spahi to rough battle bred. 

With tufted lance and mantle red ; 

Wild horsemen flying like the wind, 

Their wide robes streaming far behind ; 

Steeds, whose rich trappings well may vie 

With their gay riders' bravery, 



104 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

And in whose kindling eye there glares 
The same wild light that burns in theirs ; 
And scarce less prized, with foot as light, 
The young mehari creamy white, 
Her saddle with full tassels hung, 
Her neck with polished cowries strung : 
There the grave camel pensive stands, 
As dreaming of the endless sands, 
That he, with laden step, must tread, 
The vulture hovering o'er his head. 

But lo, the pacha and his train 
Wind down the pathway to the plain, 
Hareem, guard, servants, form his suite. 
All ordered with a splendor meet 
For Eastern despot, when he goes 
In search of pleasure, not of foes. 
When the date-harvest draweth nigh, 
It is the pacha's wont to fly 
From cares of state, awhile to rest 



THE CAEAVAN. 105 

In Nefta's * gardens, rich and blest. 

As groves of the Ilesperides, 

Whose golden apples Gods could please. 

There soars the palm of loftiest shoot, 

Of broadest leaf, and choicest fruit ; 

Nor this alone, but every tree, 

Shrub, vine, most prized by luxury. 

Now, when the caravan affords 

Sure guard against the robber-hordes. 

Thither the pleasure-loving Bey 

With friends and followers takes his way. 

To linger there till Spring's bright train 

Makes Tunis paradise again. 

A jet-black courser doth he ride, 

That bears his lord with conscious pride ; 

A nobler steed, as all may see. 



* Nefta, the Negeta of the Romans, a town of 3000 inhabitants, lies 
south-west of Tunis, and is remarkable for the abundance and excellent 
quality of its waters, its olives, its dates, its pomegrantes, its melons, and, 
in short, all the vegetable productions of the climate. The Bey of Tunis 
has a palace at Nefta, and formerly made it his winter residence. 

5* 



106 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Was never bred in Araby. 

And close at hand, the aatoosh shows 

Its silken curtains, that enclose 

The bright Messouda, the young wife 

Of Aali, precious as his life. 

Another — this his daughter bears, 

The lovely Fatmeh, now of years 

More womanly, and with a light 

Of beauty lent to mortal sight 

But rarely. To the childlike grace, 

That ever marks the Eastern maid, 

Is added, in that matchless face, 

Of earnestness a tender shade. 

Whence came that beam of heavenly thought 

To one by book or sage untaught, 

And in a false religion bred 1 

Be not so narrow in thy creed ! 

The God, who Job and Abram loved. 

Although their people knew Him not, 

Who Moab's gentle daughter moved. 



THE CARAVAN. 107 

Though Moab had His name forgot, 
Hath still His own in every land 
Taught by His voice led by His hand ! 

Old Gerda at the maiden's side 
Beholds her with a mother's pride ; 
Their talk is of the late demand 
Made by Algeria's tyrant lord, 
Stern Ibrahim, for Fatmeh's hand, 
To which the Bey will not accord ; 
And much the grateful daughter fears 
Her father's pity for her tears 
May kindle wear's devouring flame — 
' Then hers the sin and hers the shame ! ' 

Behind the women came a troop 
Of slaves — a strangely mingled group, 
Together brought o'er land and sea, 
Of every faith and every kin. 
From Ethiop's darkest ebony 
To Europe's fairest, rosiest skin. 



108 



WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Al30ve the rest, young Melleff's form 

Towered high, as cloth the forest tree 

Over the brushwood, though the storm 

May bow its head full heavily. 

His foot is lingering, and his eye 

Turned backward to the Northern sky ; 

For each reluctant step removes 

Him further from the home he loves. 

Alas ! he may no more delay ; 

The caravan is on its way ! 

Allah hoo akbar ! how the ery 

Swells upward, as 'twould rend the sky ! 

Now, now, must friends their farewells speak, 

Not wives — they make the heart too weak. 

Sadly the parting words are said, 

Sires bless their sons, with hands outspread, 

Mothers and sisters weeping loud, 

With their full pitchers, through tlie crowd 

Are hurrying, water fresh to throw 

Upon the camels ore. they go ; 



THE CAEAVAN. 109 

Then gather, with a trembling hand 
And tearfid eye, the trodden sand, 
Where the departing foot was set. 
To wear it for an amulet ; 
Praying it may he Allah's will 
Their friends should meet no omen ill, 
No slave deformed, nor men at strife, 
Nor raven boding loss of life ; 
Kather a warrior richly clad, 
Or a young matron gay and glad. 
Who her soft girdle will unbind, 
And give it fluttering to the wind, 
To insure for them a safe return. 
And for herself a gift to earn. 
Meanwhile, the human flood sweeps on 
Through olive-groves, rough steeps adown. 
Through viny vales, o'er sandy wastes, 
Alternate, till at length it rests 
Beneath the walls of old Zowan ; 
There sleeps the weary caravan. 



110 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

O Melleff! had the pictured scroll 

Of Time's strange tale ere met thine eye, 

The anguish of thy fainting soul 

Thou wouldst forget, where thou dost lie, 

Gazing on Zowan's towering crest 

Now in its sunset glory dressed. 

Hark ! from yon frowning heights dost thou not hear 
Voices unearthly through the gathering gloom, 
So low and mournful, that the listening ear 
Knows them but echoes from the hollow tomb 1 

Alas, we cannot catch the words they speak ! 
From lips of such ethereal essence light, 
Our heavy, cloddish senses are too weak 
To guess the mystic meaning half aright. 

Oh, for the gift divine, late dreamers claim, 
With souls departed converse free to hold ! 
Then would we bid the dead of olden fame 
Come nearer, and the mighty past unfold. 



THE CAKAVA^. Ill 

Ye stoled priests, who erst majestic trod 
Those peaks sublime, with hymn and offering due 
To greet Phoenicia's bright and burning god, 
When o'er them his first ray and last he threw ; 

Who lingered still, when his glad beams were gone, 
To welcome great Astarte, queen of Heaven, 
That, crescent-crowned, shot from her sapphire throne 
A light which paled the fairest star of even ; 

What Orient land was first your father's nurse ? 
How had they thus Jehovah's name forgot. 
Who to the sun gives his appointed course, 
And the moon seasons that she passes not ? 

Tell us of Dido, young and lovely queen. 
Wherefore an exile from the Tyrian shore 1 
Or, was she but a phantom only seen 
In the fond poet's visionary lore ? 



112 WOLPE OF THE KNOLL. 

Sicilia's tyrant, fierce Agathocles ! 
How looked great Carthage, when from yonder mount 
Thou didst survey, with anxious, longing eyes, 
This tempting vale, and war's stern chances count ? * 

What arts have flourished, ere the Roman sword, 
With jealous hate accursed, laid all so low ? 
And was indeed this ancient empire's word 
As worthless as the faith of nations now 1 

Alas, there comes no answer all the night ! 
In vain we summon him called African, 
And him of Utica, though well they might 
Still linger where their deathless fame began. 

Even Hippo's bishop will not hear our prayer ! 
He, open once as truth — though we entreat 



* It was from the peak of Zowan that, according to Diodorus Sicukis, 
Agathocles viewed both Carthage and Hadrumetum in that bold cam- 
paign, when in the midst of the siege of Syracuse by the Carthaginians, 
he secretly left the city, aud landed with a considerable force, near the 
enemy's capital in Africa, and after many brilliant victories, nearly suc- 
ceeded in capturing it. 



THE CAEAVAN. 113 

With passion unto tears — deigns not declare 
What now he would retract, and what repeat. 

Let us then trace those streams of crystal sheen 
To their high sources in the mountain's breast. 
Will they not tell us what strange things have been, 
Since first their sparkling floods these valleys blest ? 

No ! Amnion's temple * even is silent now, 
With none to tell who bade its mighty heart 
' Send forth the tide, whose full and lengthening flow 
To thirsty Carthage did its wealth impart. 

% 
Alas ! we find no teacher 'neath the skies, 

Save giant skeletons of empires dead ! 

May yet some great historic Cuvier rise, 

New light, from these, on ages past to shed ! 

* The temple of Jupiter Ammon, the walls of which are still standing, 
IS the most important of the ruins ot Zowan. The temple was a sort of 
chateau cVeau, containing an immense basin for receiving the waters of the 
fountains, and delivering them into the aqueduct, which, by a circuitous 
route of fifty miles, conveyed them to Carthage. 



114 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 



But tlie poor captive had no dreams 
Like these. Far other were the themes 
That fed his fancy, as he Lay 
Dreading yet longing for the day. 
A vision of the night revealed 
Ere sleep had once his eye-lids sealed — 
As then undoubtiiigly he deemed — 
And which so true, so life-like seemed, 
Now with confusion clouds his brain — 
He thinks it o'er and o'er again. 
Kobed, voiced like woman, it drew near 
His side and bade him—" Be of cheer ! 
Nor longer mourn thy mother's fears, 
For God hath dried her many tears ! 
The sunset of thy father's day 
Thou yet may'st brighten — hope and pray ! 
Even here doth love still watch o'er thee. 
With purpose strong to set thee free ! " 



THE CAKAVAN. 115 

He tried to speak — the figure fast 
Melted away, and all was passed ! 

Day comes — not with a lingering foot, 
As in the cliill and misty North, 
But suddenly its red beams shoot 
Athwart the sky, and o'er the earth. 
Then all is bustle in the camp, 
Of man and beast a hurried tramp. 
The camels groan with rage and pain 
To feel the hated load again. 
The driver's curse rings loud and clear ; 
O'er all, the voice of the Khrebir, 
Bidding the lagging line move on. 
Ere the fresh morning hour be gone. 
Now, through the fertile vale they wind. 
But soon must leave its wealth behind. 
To-day their toilsome journey leads 
O'er arid sands, through rocky beds 
Of torrents bare, so rough and steep, 



116 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

The camel scarce his foot may keep. 
But hi the desert, at this hour, 
The wanderer feels unwonted power. 
He counteth not the weary leagues, 
, Recks not of dangers or fatigues. 
How doth the heart of Ishmael's child 
Bound, to behold his native wild 
In the fair morning light spread out ! 
He fills the air with song and shout ! 



Oh, would' st thou taste the highest bliss 
That freedom on the soul bestows, 
Go forth into the wilderness, 
When the first day -born zephyr blows ! 
There shalt thou feel thy Psyche-wings 
Lift thee above all earthly things ! 
But ah, they shall not bear thee long. 
For Phoebus, wroth at human pride. 
Will smite thee, with a beam as strong 
As that by which young Icarus died. 



THE CAEAVAN. 117 



And thou slialt fall to earth again, 
A mortal \Yrung with want and pain ! 



Even MellefF felt his heart more light 
Than 'neath the curtain of the night ; 
There seemed a tender ^^resence near, 
That with sweet promise filled his ear — 
Promise of liberty and home ! 
Thought of his mother scarce was gloom- 
Not greatly generous hearts complain 
For those for whom to die is gain. — 
That midnight whisper, breathing low 
Of cheer and love — oh, might he know 
If it were hers ! he will obey, 
Howe'er it be, and hope and pray ! 
With clearer brow and footstep strong- 
He follows now that servile throng. 

Heavily doth the mid-day pass, 

When earth and heaven alike are brass. 



118 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

The Arab's song is hushed ; no sound 

Breaketh the awful stilhiess round, 

Save the slow earners drowsy tread 

Across the plain so dry and dead, 

And the sand's rustle, falling back 

As the foot leaves the indented track. 

There is no shade in earth or sky, 

On which to rest the aching eye. 

On every side a fiery glare, 

A quivering glimmer in the air. 

As if even air would waste away 

In that fierce, endless noontide ray ! 

The glowing sands are heavenward whirled 

In lofty columns tinged with flame, 

As if from out the kindling world 

The smoke of its last burning came ! 

Poor Melleff, late of strength so high, 

Now child-weak, faints as death were nigh. 

But see, across his languid face 

A sudden flush of rapture pass ! 



THE CAKAVAN. 119 

He lifts his sinking head, and cries : 

" Lo, yonder the fair water lies ! " 

Not gladder those old Greeks than he, 

When first they saw ' the sea ! the sea ! ' 

Alas, O Melleff, thou art mocked! 

Those towers, that lake, those boats wave-rocked, 

Those islands plumed with forests tall — 

They are but empty phantoms all ! 

Would we with words that fancy cure ? 

As well bid the young heart be sure 

Life will not her fair promise keep. 

But leave all eyes at last to weep ! 

Oh, 'tis not thus that we may learn 

Our souls from vanity to turn ; 

Each for himself must test the show, 

And truth by stern experience know. 

Oft must the desert-wanderer prove 

Tlie stately castle, verdant grove. 

The clear, bright lake, the boundless sea, 

To be a cruel mockery, 



120 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Before those cheating shadows will 
Cease with vain hopes his soul to fill ! 

IjO, fading is that vision fair ! 
There is a light stir in the air, 
A faint, hot sigh, and all again 
Is still — as vainly nature then 
Strove to dissolve the fatal spell, 
And back to endless silence fell. 
Another — a more stifling blast, 
Now gust on gust is following fast ! 
'Tis the thick breath of the simoom, 
In cloudy volumes rolling by, 
Filling the air with lurid gloom 
That shrouds alike the earth and sky. 
The camels from the smothering gale 
Turn gasping, while the Arabs veil 
With thickest folds the averted face, 
And man and beast stand motionless. 
Fierce was the sand-storm — but soon past ; 



THE CAEAVAN. 121 

Again the slow lines onward stretch 
In moody silence, till at last 
The longed-for resting-place they reach ; 
While, sun-touched still, the eye may scan 
The far-off towers of Kairouan.* 

Beneath a thin acacia's shade, 
The captive laid his burning head, 
And prayed for death. His weary feet 
Were blistered by the scorching heat 
Of flint and sand, through which, unshod. 
With bleeding step he long had trod. 
Speechless, the parched and stiffened tongue 
To the mouth dry and fevered clung ; 
The swollen, cracked lips were purple grown, 
The eyes, that once as purely shone 
As sapphire in a crystal sea, 
Had lost their dewy brilliancy ; 



* Kairouan, situated in a sterile sandy plain, almost entirely without 
vegetation, was the African capital of the Moslem conquerors in the eighth 
and ninth centuries. 

6 



122 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

The glazed and heavy orbs, grown dim, 
Seemed in a pool of blood to swim ; 
A fiery current coursed each vein, 
With quick, hot throbbings beat his brain, 
Bewildered thought from side to side 
riew hurriedly, but nought descried 
Save threatening phantoms of distress, 
Then sank to dark unconsciousness. 
Around the sleeper all is life. 
Command, and curse, and quarrel rife. 
The Bey's green tents are pitched in haste, 
Witli care mats, skins and cushions placed. 
But for the rest, a single man 
Alone of all the caravan 
May claim such comforts — the Khrebir, 
The leader whom they all revere — 
For well they know the proverb wise, 
That thus the Arab doth advise : 
'If thou must needs a journey make. 
Then to thyself companions take. 



THE CABAVAN. 123 

Alone, a demon doth pursue ; 
With pilgrims twain are tempters two ; 
And when the number swells to three, 
Let one the chosen chieftain be.' * 
To him they give obedience meet, 
Spread the soft carpet for a seat, 
And shelter him from cold and heat. 
Some from their loads the camels free. 
And bind with cords the bended knee. 
That none from the encampment stray, 
And to marauders fall a prey. 
The slaves are scattered o'er the plain 
In eager search — nor quite in vain, — 
For desert-shrubs that serve to light 
The needful watchfires of the night. 
And with whose brisk and crackling blaze, 
^Though short-lived, they have learned to raise 



* The Prophet has said : {' Begin your journeys on Friday, and always 
with company. Alone, a demon follows you ; if ye are two, two demons 
do tempt you ; and when ye are three, choose to you a chief." 



124 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

The steaming odors, that so deep 

In Mocha's priceless berry sleep. 

Its fragrance now is on the air, 

And straight the tiny cup they bear 

To their tired lords, who glad lay by 

Their pipes for this blest luxury. 

The servants then their thirst assuage 

With the same precious beverage. 

This done, the savory meats they dress, 

By Arabs of the wilderness 

So prized. Meanwhile, from her employ 

A negro girl young Fatmeh calls. 

And bids her nurse the Christian boy. 

Upon her knee Ayesha falls 

Beside that form insensible, 

And marks the troubled breathing well. 

Then lifting from the torrid sand 

The languid head, with gentle hand, 

Gives to his lips the welcome draught. 

Which but half consciously is quaffed. 



THE CAEAVAN. 125 

When from the sky the red sun passed, 
And night with sudden chill came fast, 
O'er him the warm caftan she spread, 
A folded mat sustained his head, 
And blessed sleep soon chased away 
The image of that fearful day. 

Now bright the ruddy camp-fires burn ! 
Around, the watchers, each in turn. 
Tell their wild tales of love or war. 
Or hidden treasures,* such as are 
Only to Chi-istian magi known. 
And at whose potent call alone 
The gorgeous jewels will gush forth. 
In shining streams, from the dark earth ; 
Then on the sparkling flood shall roll. 
Nor mountain bar nor sea control. 
Till it hath reached the Christian shore, 

* Traditions of immense treasure hidden in the depths of the earth, or 
inclosed in the solid rock, and which can be discovered only by Christian 
sages, are very current in Africa. 



126 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

On Frankistan its wealth to pour — 
Whose voice upon the night doth break ? 
" Ho, watchman ! sleep je now or wake ? '' 
They know their faithful leader's cry, 
And with assuring shouts reply, 
Retrim the wasting fires, and then 
Take up the half-told tale again. 
But hark ! from out the circling gloom, 
A note that shakes like trump of doom ! 
Watchers and sleepers at the sound 
Start to their feet with headlong bound ; 
The ready muskets blazing ring 
On every side ; the watch-fires fling 
Their mounting wings of crimson light 
Far out upon the sullen night ; 
The camel with deep shuddering moans 
The presence of his monarch owns. 
While human shouts ascending high 
Declare that nobler man is nigh. 
And warn the royal beast to fly. 



THE CAKAVAN. 127 



IIo hears — he that for peer alone 
The son of woman deigns to own — * 
Nor for such foe will longer stay, 
But back to darkness stalks away. 



* When the lion roars, the Arabs pretend to distinguish the words 
" ahua ou ben el mera. I and the son of the woman." Ahna (I) he utters 
but once, but he repeats " the son of the woman," whence it is inferred 
that he recognizes man as his superior. 



CANTO VII 



THE LETTER. 



Let us fly from the burning desert forth, 
For an hour to the cool and showery North ! 
From the jackal's cry, from the lion's roar, 
To the billows that break on a troubled shore — 
Hear the scream of the sea-mew wild, instead 
Of the vulture's flap o'er the carcass dead — 
Leave the sandy couch, where the captive sleeps, 
For the knoll where his watch the father keeps ! 

There still the patient father stands 
Where first we marked him, on the down, 
And of each passing sail demands 
If it bear tidings of his son. 



THE LETTEE. 

Again the fair midsummer-tide 
Shines, as when Melleff left his side, 
So bold, so full of hope to earn 
Such mead for toils he longed to bear. 
That he full shortly might return 
To free his father's age from care ! 
Where is he now 1 how deep this thought 
In every feature is inwrought*! 
But on that withered cheek a beam 
Of fresher hue methinks doth glow. 
Oh, is it not the trembling gleam 
Eeflected from hope's radiant bow ? 
Aye, and his eye is dim and bright 
By turns from that same changeful light. 
Hath some late news of his lost boy 
Shed on his heart this doubtful joy ? 

But see ! he leaves the twilight shore, 

Across the winding creek is gone 

Toward a kind neighbor's friendly door, 
6* 



129 



130 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

That never bar or bolt hath known. 
A moment let us enter there, 
Before the guest's slow foot draws nigh. 
It is the hour of evening prayer, 
And its deep tones fill solemnly 
The hushed space of the dusky room. 
Half-curtained by the twilight gloom ; 
But still around each kneeler's head 
A shimmer of the evening red 
Doth linger. By its fading light 
Their number we may tell aright. 
The father first, whose silver hair 
Gleams like a saintly glory there, 
And near him, touched by the same ray, 
A child's unquiet tresses play. 
Next, side by side, two sisters meek 
A blessing on the absent seek. 
Each in a mourning vesture clad — 
Well may they wear those garments sad ! 
A husband's coming one doth wait; 



THE LETTER. 131 

The other for a lover sighs 
Whose parting sail to-day was set, 
Just lost to her pursuing eyes. 
Are there no more ? A low amen 
Comes from a shadowy corner, when 
The father's simple prayer is done — 
It is the mother's feeble tone ! 
Within that arm-chair — curious wrought 
By hands that have their craft forgot 
For centuries — sits the aged dame, 
And thus hath sat for years the same. 
Ere icy-fingered Time could dare 
To frost one thread of her dark hair. 
Or draw one line across the brow 
So deeply scored with furrows now. 
The arrows of disease pierced sore 
That shrinking frame, and evermore 
His patient thrall she bideth still. 
Waiting with cheerful courage, till 



132 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

He who set Abraham's daughter free, 
Loose her from her infirmity. 



Soon as the worshippers arise, 
The glad child to the window flies, 
And, leaning through the open sash. 
Watches the billows' foamy dash. 
But, most of all, the evening sky, 
That seldom glows so ruddily 
Around the chill and misty isle. 
Though warmed by summer's softest smile. 
A growing wonder shades the joy 
Spread o'er the features of the boy. 
" O, grandpapa ! now tell me, pray. 
Who takes the golden sun away. 
And keeps it from us all the night "? 
And what makes yonder sky so bright ? " 
As moved by some lost memory, 
The old man smiled, then on his knee 



THE LETTER. 133 

The little questioner he set, 
And to his daughter playful turned, 
Whose cheeks with recent tears were wet,— 
." Come, Ola ! hear a tale I learned 
Long since ; 'tis one will suit thee well, 
Sit thou beside me while I tell ! " 



MIDSUMMER TWILIGHT. 

Thou seest in the West, where the waves wash the sky, 
The torch of the day-star at eve slow expiring ; 
Again dost behold, with thine opening eye, 
His flambeau rekindled, the Orient firing. 

Hath any e'er shown thee, who quencheth its light 1 
E'er told thee of Quelling, the maiden immortal ? 
Of Delling, the youth, with his locks amber-bright, 
Who bears it, relighted, through Morn's flashing portal ? 



134: WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Then hear how the bards of the North tell the tale ; 
When Allfather's work of creation was ended, 
That daylight and darkness in turn should not fliil, 
He called two fair spirits that round him attended. 

To rosy young Quelling, his loveliest child, 
A virgin whose birthright was beauty eternal, 
He spoke thus, in accents paternally mild : 
" My daughter, behold, this thy duty diurnal — 



" To extinguish the torch of the westering Sun, 

When earthward he leaneth, with face flushed and weary ; 

And keep it with care till the dew-beaded dawn 

Shall scatter dun Night, with her train pale and dreary." 



To Delling, the first of the heavenly choir : 

" Thine be it, when Sol starteth up from his sleeping, 

To bid the torch flame with ethereal fire, 

And give it again to his watchfullest keeping." 



THE LETTEK., 135 

The fair sky-born children since, ever in turn, 
Have failed not to do as Allnither hath bidden ; 
At dawn, heaven and earth in the new glory burn — 
At evening, the red blaze is carefully hidden. 

When Nature, grown drowsy and chill, seeketh rest, 
The torch for long hours in deep darkness reposes ; 
For early its beam goeth out in the West, 
And late in the East, Morn's cold eyelid uncloses. 

When Spring's breath requickens each life-gifted thing, 
And Summer hath need of the days long and sunny, 
Her flowers and her fruits to perfection to bring, 
Ripe cherries for robins, for bees the sweet honey — 

Then early and late stands the Sun in the skies, 
Still pouring his M'arm rays on meadow and river ; — 
To paint rose and lily with loveliest dyes. 
And gild the bright cornfield, he wearieth never. 



136 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Brief then are the moments of silence and shade 



Still flickers the torch just inverted by Quelling, 
When clear the birds' matin-song swells from the glade, 
The fire glows again, held aloft by blithe Delling. 

It chanced at this sweetest of seasons, more praised. 
More sung by the poets than ever another. 
The watchers, star-crowned, once too earnestly gazed, 
Too long, in the clear, deej), brown eyes of each other. 

When Delling reached forth for the languishing flame, 
lie pressed the white hand that the maiden extended, 
Then forward he stooped, and his ruddy lips came 
Nigh hers and more nigh, till in kisses they blended. 

On Quelling's soft cheek burneth crimson a blush. 
Till, skyward reflected, it reaches the zenith ; 
There mirrored, the fire of the youth meets the flush, 
As over her beauty still fondly he leaneth. 



THE LETTER. 137 

But Odin, whose eye doth not slumber for aye, 
In midnight's short silence looked down on their meeting; 
He called them before him, when shone the full day, 
And spake to them thus, with right fatherly greeting : 

" My children, with zeal my behest ye fulfil, 

And service so faithful its recompense claimeth. 

Nor fear that with me it doth argue aught ill, 

That Love's sacred spark your young bosom inflameth. 

" Henceforth will I grant you, a true wedded pair, 
Forever to dwell in a union unending. 
Together all duty, all pleasure to share, 
Still closer and closer your souls ever blending." 

The lovers were silent — then lowly they knelt — 
" Allfather forgive — hear the prayer that we offer ! 
Such bliss in the kiss of betrothal we felt. 
We would not exchange it for all thou dost proffer. 



138 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

" Oh, grant us forever affianced to live, 
And yearly, when Earth in her summer robe dresses, 
For largess more ample, this simple boon give, 
Our hands let us join, let our lips meet in kisses ! " 

Then Allfather smiled on the suppliant pair, 
And blessed the sweet bond of their hearts' happy choosing — 
Could any who heard them breathe forth that meek prayer, 
A joy such as theirs think it blame to fear losing 1 

Ever since, when their season of tryst cometh round. 
Kind Nature pours forth her best treasures to grace it, 
Her brightest of beauty, her sweetest of sound. 
And ne'er suffers frost or chill mist to deface it. 

Know, then, when thou seest still at midsummer's tide 
A flush in the West, when the red dawn is breaking, 
'Tis the glow of the youth, 'tis the blush of his bride. 
New troth-vows the lovers immortal are making ! * 



* The Legend of the Midsummer Twilight is given in Kohl II., 278. 
It is of Esthonian origin, and the names of the youth and maiden are Koit 



TIIE LETTEE. 139 

Wearily up the cottage mound 

Old Wolfe, with feeble footsteps, wound, 

And now Avithin the door doth stand, 

And now receives the welcoming hand. 

" Neighbor, my errand thou canst guess ! 

Have patience with my childishness. 

And, prithee, let me hear once more 

What thou hast read me o'er and o'er 

Of my poor boy. I cannot choose 

But marvel that he sends no news 

From his own hand. The boy could write 

Fair as the pastor ; and when night 

Her curtains dark doth downward roll, 

Strange doubts arise within my soul, 

and Aemmarik. These names are, like Equotuticum— quod versu dicere 
non est— not well suited to English verse, and therefore the author has 
substituted for them Delling (Icelandic Dellingr, formed from dagr, day, 
the appellation of the Scandinavian god of day, and Quelling, a corre- 
sponding derivative from qveld (kveld, qvoUd), evening. Those un- 
acquainted with the Northern languages may suppose it a violation of cos- 
tume to employ Sol as the name of the sun in a story with a Scandi- 
navian machinery ; but the sun is called Sol in Icelandic as well as in 
Latin. 



140 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Misgivings, fears that will not end — " 
" Thy letter, daughter ! " said the friend. 
The youthful matron pushed aside her wheel, 
And brought, with wifely pride, 
The sheet that, in its careful folds. 
Treasures of love and promise holds. 
Thus writes the husband : " If God please, 
We soon shall leave the Midland seas 
For home. Young Melleff, sought in vain 
So long, is found, is free again, 
And in our ship for Hamburg sails. 
Heaven speed her on with favoring gales ! " 



CANTO VIII. 

THE CHASE. 

'Neath Nefta's palms they slowly walked— 

The foster-mother and her child — 

And earnestly together talked, 

While ruddy morning round them smiled. 

" The Christian Melleff," said the maid, 

" We miss from haunts where late he stray 

The roses on the outer wall, 

That were his charge to train and dress, 

Upon the earth neglected fall — 

The garden grows a wilderness. 

Hath sickness smitten ? — or thy hands^ 

O Gerda ! have they loosed his bands ? " 



142 WOLFE OF TH1D KNOLL. 

" Nay ! nay ! these hands in youth were found 

Too weak to burst the cords that bound. 

Now, trembling fast with age and pain, 

How should they break another's chain ? 

I too have questioned, and they say 

He stands of late before the Bey. 

For Fatmeh ! know, I more than share 

For Melleff all thy watchful care. 

Child of my poor lost child, to me 

Dearer than all on earth save thee ! — 

Thou hast no words for w^onder ! stay— 

My tale thou'lt hear another day. 

Enough, enough, that now I show 

One chapter of my early woe. 

They tore me from my babe, my joy — 

Her, since the mother of this boy — 

From him I learned that mother's name, 

Her orphan state, and whence she came. 

Then through my soul there shot a light. 

As if the noon should flash on night. 



THE CHASE. 143 

I thought — age too hath dreams so wild — 

I might again behold my child, 

With MellefF go — his freedom won — 

And to her arms restore her son ! 

Breathless I sought the cro^Yded quay 

Where many a merchant flag waved free, 

One from the North — the master * well 

Knew Wolfe and would not fliil to tell 

Of his boy's bondage ; ' " Ah," he cried, 

" Now is it well the mother died 

Ere this could reach her ! " — " Is she dead ? " 

Gaspingly, vshudderingly I said. 

Pie answered, and I turned, once more 

All crushed and hopeless, from the shore. — 

Peace has returned. Now am I blest 

To know my INIary is at rest. 

I follow soon — but I would see, 

Ere I depart, her MellefF free ! 

No ransom comes — and thou, once more, 

O Eatmeh, shalt the Bey implore. 



144 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Where childhood's timid prayers could fail, 
Thy woman's tears may still prevail"— 
Young Fatmeh's face grew deadly pale. 

" Up ye now ! saddle the steeds that are fleetest ! 
Steeds for the chase of the camel-bird meetest ! 
See that my tents fleck the desert's red border 
Ere the gray nightfall ! " — so ran the Bey's order. 

Ere the gray nightfall, his green tents were planted 
Far to the south, where the setting sun slanted 
Arrows of fire o'er a golden- waved ocean 
Solid as jasper, no sound and no motion. 

Far to the south, where the clouds yester-even 
Marshalled their ranks by the light of the levin ; 
Thither the rain-loving ostrich hath sped her, 
Swift as the flash of the bright bolt that led her.* 

* The ostrich is generally found where showers of rain have lately fallen. 
According to the Arabs, when the ostrich sees the lightning and a gather- 
ing storm, she runs in the direction where it appears, however distant it 
may be. A ten days' journey (of a caravan) is but a trifle for her. They 
say of a man who is skilful in providing for his flocks in the desert, " He 
is like the ostrich ; where he sees the lightning flash, there he is." 



THE CHASE. 145 

Fleet is the game they will hunt on the morrow ; 
Rider and horse, let them hasten to borrow 
Strength from repose, ere the white robe of morning, 
Seen from afar, of the chase giveth warning. 

Wake ! for her silvery mantle is gleaming, 
O'er it her tresses of amber are streaming, 
Upward on iris-hued pinions she springeth, 
Pearls o'er oasis and palm-grove she flingeth ! 

Cast off the haik ! Be your girdle the tightest, 
Saddle and bridle and stirrup the lightest, 
Look to the weight of the weapon ye carry. 
Lose not a moment ! Lo, yonder the quarry ! 

Swift as a shaft from the bow of Apollo, 

Forth darts the ostrich, the snorting steeds follow ; 

Sail-like, her white, curling pinions she spreadeth — 

Is it the earth, or the air that she treadeth ? 

7 



146 WOLFE OF TIIE KNOLL. 

'' Fast on her foremost pursuer she gaineth, 
Vainly each nerve and each muscle he straineth, 
Vamly, with nostrils dilated, he drinketh 
Draughts of the wind * — ^lo, he reeleth, he sinketh ! 

Mark how the wile of the sportsman appeareth ! f 
Yonder white rock, that the panting bird neareth, 
Shelters a courser as fresh as the morning — 
Rider and roan, for the race they are burning. 

On like a whirlwind the wild hunter rushes. 
Now, now, the plumes of the victim he brushes ! 
Too soon with triumph his dark eye is bright'ning ! 
Far, far before him she sweeps like the lightning ! 



* Sherb-el-Rih, wiucl-drinker, is an epithet applied to the swiftest 
horses. 

t The ostrich has very lijttle cunning, never doiilles in her flight, but 
depends on her speed alone, and runs in a straight course. Several horse- 
men post themselves at distances of about a league from each other on the 
line of flight ; and when one stops, the next takes up the pursuit, and thus 
the bird is constantly chased by fresh horses. Of course the last horse- 
man secures the prize. 



THE CHASE. 147 

Barb of the desert, thy breeding is noble, 
Yet hope thou not, though thy mettle were double, 
E'er to o'ertake the wing'd giant that races 
Fast as the rack which the hurricane chases ! 

Once more from ambush a horseman outleapeth ; 
Thine, gallant gray, is the foot that outstrippeth 
Samiel, the sun-born ; now prove what thou darest ; 
On for the prize ! 'tis thy master thou bearest ! 

Eapid, direct, as the ball when it flashes 
Out through the smoke-wreath, the fiery Bey dashes 
Forth on the game, that yet slacks not nor falters. 
Right-ward or left-ward her course never alters. 



Sky, air and earth in the noontide are seething, 
Stifling and hot is the dust-cloud they're breathing,- 
Little reck they of the shrivelling heaven. 
Heed not the fire-shower that o'er them is driven ! 



148 WOLFE OF THE ICN^OLL. 

Hour after hour the pursued and pursuing 
Scour o'er the sand-waste, their speed still renewing ; 
Foam-mantled steed, how thy sobljing gasps thicken ! 
Bird of the Sahara, thy lagging steps quicken, 

So art thou safe! 'Tis too late ! lo, already 
Trail her fringed wings, and her foot is unsteady ! 
Blindly she staggers, she seeketh to hide her ! 
Courage, bold gray, and thou soon art beside her ! 

Headlong she rolleth, still fluttering and shivering, 
O'er her the courser stands panting and quivering, 
Aali hath lifted his weapon, she boundeth 
High in the death-throe, her flapping wing soundeth 

Hoarse as the tempest ; the frightened steed starteth,* 
Swerves, plunges, rears, till the saddle-girth parteth ; 
Off" springs his lord, down the. barb droppeth dying, 
Courser and camel-bird side by side lying ! 

* The victory is not Avithout danger. The fluttering of the bird's wings, 
as she falls, inspires the horse with a sudden terror, which often proves 
fatal to the rider. 



THE CHASE. 149 

The chase is o'er, the fiery day 
To night's cool splendors fast gives way. 
Aali commands his weary train 
To- seek Sheikh Moosa's tents again ; 
There yesternoon the generous chief 
To every want gave prompt relief, 
And there the pacha will abide 
Till the red flush of morning-tide. 

Didst e'er tnose valleys green behold, 

Of Desert Araby the pride. 

By glowing hills encircled wide, 

Like emeralds set in chiselled gold 1 

Didst ever there at evening lie 

And watch, beneath a royal palm, 

How the great moon came up the sky 

In all her majesty of calm. 

Yet shedding beams as bright as those 

Shot from Prince Arthur's flaming shield, 



150 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

When he unveiled it to his foes 
And left them sightless on the field ? 
There hast thou heard, the livelong night, 
The shrill cicala's quavering lay, — 
She could not know such glorious light 
Was not indeed the golden day ! — 
And hast thou marked the slender thread 
Of crystal shining at thy feet, 
Winding along its agate bed 
With flow so soft, so silvery sweet, 
While the lush oleander gazed, 
By her own wondrous beauty dazed, 
Into the watery mirror clear, 
Where all her lovely blooms appear 1 
In such a vale Sheikh Moosa rests, 
On such a night receives his guests. 

Stately the welcome that he gave. 
Such as became a patriarch grave. 
" Be Allah's peace upon thy head ! " 



THE CHASE. 151 

" Nor less on thine that peace be shed ! " 

" O Bey ! lo, all that late was mine, 
My flocks, my herds, my tents are thine ! 
The meanest slave that follows thee 
Shall hunger not, nor thirst with me." 

*' O master of the tent ! " replied 
The Bey, " thy courtesy was tried 
But late ; our presence here to-night 
Proves that we value it aright." 

Then Aali to his tent repairs, 
While for his guest Sheikh Moosa cares. 
He bids his servants haste to bring 
Fair water from the living spring, 
So grateful to the traveller's feet 
After such day of toil and heat. 
Then smoking viands follow fast 
And long, till milk and dates at last 
Conclude the generous repast. 



152 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Tunisia's lord doth here abate 
Somewhat of his accustomed state, 
For he has learned that fiery blood 
Of Bedouin brooks not haughty mood, 
And willingly he would not know 
A powerful desert chief his foe. 
Now he demands with kindly air, 
" How doth thy little warrior fare — 
The boy that yesterday did ride 
So proud and fearless by thy side, 
And with his mimic martial play 
Made every heart around him gay ? " 

The sheikh replied, " At this late hour 
He slumbers in his mother's bower ; 
But if my lord till dawn remain, 
He shall behold the child again." 

With the long day's rude pleasures spent, 
On carpet soft the Bey now sleeps, 



THE CHASE. 153 

And ever round his princely tent 
A faithful watch Sheikh Moosa keeps. 
The azure field above it spi^ad 
Hangs not more silent overhead, 
Than lies the little vale below 
Till the dawn lifts her jewelled brow, 
And bids the morning-star that waits 
Throw wide the Orient's shining gates. 
Then from his couch doth Aali start, 
And give the signal to depart. 

His morning orisons were o'er, 
His chafing steed at the tent-door ; 
Leave of his host he turned to take. 
And courteous were the words he s^^ake ; 
Fair wishes many, thanks were none — 
The Moslem thanks his God alone. 

The sheikh made answer, " Hear, O Bey ! 

And for a moment yet delay. 
7* 



154: WOLFE OF THE K:N0LL. 

Thou art my guest since yestereven, 

And I, with Allah's aid, have striven 

Our Prophets precept to fulfil, 

And keep thee from all pain and ill. 

Such duty may not be discussed, 

The guest is Allah's sacred trust. 

If then the service of this night 

Hath found acceptance in thy sight, 

I pray thee with thy presence deign 

To grace a mournful funeral train." 

He paused, his pale lips trembled fast. 

And through his frame a shudder passed. 

Then calm resuming, " Know," he said, 

" The child that won thy praise is dead ! 

The noonday sun shot through his brain 

A deadly dart of mortal pain ; 

An hour before thy horses' tread 

Sounded afar, his spirit fled. 

So Allah willed it ! Be it so ! 

Who but the all-knowinsc God should know 



THE CHASE. 155 

Whether we need or joy or woe ! 
But when thy train came up the vale, 
I bade the women cease their wail — 
Even the poor mother, wild with woe, 
I charged her outcries to forego ; 
And to secure obedience, swore 
That if one sob of hers my guest 
Should reach, to trouble feast or rest, 
Henceforth she was my wife no more ! 
Thou knowest, O Bey, if sound or sight 
Of grief hath touched thy heart this night ! 
Then join thy faithful prayers with mine, 
That on the dead God's face may shine ! " 

The Bey stood speechless as in trance, 
Wonder and pity in his glance, 
Then, " 'Tis the will of God ! " he said, 
And followed where Sheikh Moosa led. 

Within the tent of grief they stand ; 
On a rich mat the fair child lies ; 



156 WOLFE OF THE KKOLL. 

Circling him round in double band 
The wailers rend the air with cries. 
" Alas, for him ! " the mother moans, 
" Alas, for him ! " a weeper groans, 
" Alas, for him ! " in chorus wild 
They shriek, " Alas, alas the child ! " 
Calmly the sleeper sleeps the while, 
And smiles great Azrael's heavenly smile. 
They shower upon his marble breast 
The costliest spices of the East ; 
Around the little form they wind 
The richest broideries of Ind ; 
Then raise the mat with tender care, 
And forth the mournful burden bear. 

Louder and shriller swells the wail ; 
Wildly, in sign of heaviest bale, 
The women toss their kerchiefs blue, 
Then beat their breasts, their shrieks renew. 



THE CHASE. . 157 

But hark ! the Moolah strikes the chant ! 
The mourners cease their piercing plaint. 
" Allah is great ! His will be done ! "— 
So did the solemn chorus run — 
" Allah is gracious, He doth give ! 
Is wise, He taketh when he will ! 
Good at His hand shall we receive, 
And murmur when He sendeth ill ? 
Let for the child our sorrows cease ! 
May Allah keep his soul in peace ! " 

While thus of mingled prayer and praise 
The measured hymn to Heaven they raise, 
With regular but rapid tread 
To his last rest they bear the dead. 
Too long the parted soul doth wait 
At the dark grave for her lost mate ! 
There the crushed bud with tearful rite 
They hide forever from their sight. 



158 . WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Slowly and reverently the men 

Turn backward to their tents again. 

The women linger still to mourn ; 

" Moon of our darkness, Oh, return ! 

O fountain of our desert, why, 

Why is thy spring thus early dry 1 

O fair young palm, why didst thou flide, 

When we were sporting 'neath thy shade "? 

Why fall and crush us, cruel tree ? 

Did we not love thee tenderly. 

Lead the sweet water to thy root. 

That thou above all palms mightst shoot ? 

Thy mother why didst thou forsake, 

And leave her wretched heart to break ? " 

Awhile the Moolah stands aloof, 
Then mildly speaks a grave reproof; 
" Ye women, trouble not the dead ! 
He hath not stood in Allah's stead 
To fix the measure of his years ! 



THE CHASE. I59 

^h) <iiT your unavailing tears ! 

Let faith and prayer assuage your woes, 

And leave the grave to its repose ! " 

Admonished thus, their grief they stayed, 
And silent there a moment prayed. 
Then with sad looks still backward cast. 
Forth from the place of tombs they passed. 

Meanwhile toward Nefta rode the Bey, 
And on his heart strange burden lay. 
Was it the morning's sight of woe 
That left his sluggish pulse so low ? 
Aali was wont to look on death, 
And lightly valued life's poor breath. 
'Twas no weak terror of the tomb 
That wrapped his spirit in this gloom. 
It was the agony of life. 
The change, the chance, the mortal strife. 
That o'er the vision of his soul 



160 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Swept like the storm-cloud's onward roll, 
Casting its heavy shadows broad, 
Even o'er the path already trod 
In smiling sunshine, till at last . 
In night lie future, present, past. 
■ Haunts not as oft such darkening spell 
The banquet as the burial ? 

The pacha strove to change his mood, 
To see through all the evil good ; 
Yet ever at his heart there lay 
A weight he could not roll away. 
Forward he spurs — What fearful need 
Doth urge yon horseman's headlong speed, ' 
That toward him rides ? Behold, they meet ! 
The messenger lies at his feet — 
Hath rent his robe with gesture wild, 
And on his head the dust hath piled. 
" What are thy tidings ? varlet, say ! " 
Exclaimed the darkly-frowning Bey. 



THE CHASE. 16] 

" Alas, alas ! O master mine . 
And must I give to ears of thine 
The tale I bring ! This night accursed, 
A storm -of desert-robbers burst 
Upon our guards, who bled in vain. 
Thy gates are forced, thy servants slain. 
Thy daughter — o'er the reeking dead 
They leaped, and with their captive fled ! " 



CANTO IX 



THE AEEIVAL. 



The sea of song and story, tlie sea that knows no tide ! 
How softly o'er its waters yon argosy doth ride ! 
Her path hj fair Trinacria, that queen of ishmds, lies, 
"Where ^Etna's smoke-wreathed forehead is lifted to the skies. 
A breath, the mildest, steadiest of summer's welcome gales, 
Hath smoothed the rugged billows, and gently fons her sails. 
No foam her bows are shedding; as noiseless doth she pass 
As ship in realm of Faery, that glides o'er waves of glass. 
Yet one her deck is pacing that marks with many a sigh 
The amethj'st of ocean, the azure of the sky. 
His spirit, fliint with longing, would hold it better flir 
To meet the black-winged storm-cloud, to mount its thunder- 
ing car, 



THE AEKIVAL. 163 

And homeward through the midnight with whirlwind-speed 

to ride, 
'Twixt walls of leaping foam-flakes, red lightning for his 

guide ! 
Nor marvel at such choosing ! his soul hath pined in chains. 
Borne slavery's sharp anguish, its more than deathly pains 
Tor years, till gold gave freedom — now swells his breast 

with joy. 
To think how glad they'll greet him, their long lost island- 
boy, 
With blessing, with caressing — Oh, here how shall he wait 
For sluggish winds that loiter, and keels with fettering 

freight ! 
Long, long with foot impatient from stem to stern he strode, 
Then, weary, o'er the bulwarks he leaned in peevish mood. 
And bent his eyes, half conscious, upon the placid flood. 

When rudely tossed by passion, thy heart has striven in vain 
Through reason's sovereign mandate its quiet to regain, 
When cares of life were rolling their wild and vapory rack 



164 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Around thee and above thee, and darkening all thy track — 
Yet thou hast shrunk from praying, because thou wert 

ashamed 
To call upon the Master, who surely must have blamed 
Thy own weak faith full sharply ere lie the tempest tamed. 
Oh then, hast ever turned thee from warring thoughts within, 
The fear, the hope, the longing, the struggle and the sin — 
Trom these hast ever turned thee to look on Nature's face, 
That still reflects so clearly her Author's constant grace ? 
She calms thee with her silence, she soothes thee with her 

sound. 
And like a loving mother's her arms enfold thee round. 
Then softly doth she whisper, " Go, erring child, go pray ! 
If haply so our Father forgive thy sin this day ! " 
Great Angel of creation ! God placed thee at our side, 
An ever present guardian to cheer us and to chide. 
Thy glorious forehead blazing with stars of differing grace, 
Thy wings of light outstretching through boundless fields 

of space. 
Thy rainbow garme'nts trailing along thy shining patli. 



THE ARKIYAL. 165 

Thy voice, now loving music, now terrible in wrath, 
Thy mighty power to quicken the dullest human heart, 
Declare from the beginning whose minister thou art ! 
Oh, still thy heavenly message of trust and patience speak 
To all whose hearts are troubled, whose clouded faith is weak ! 

Now mark the restless stranger ! as down the crystal wave 
He looks, his pulse grows calmer, his anxious brow less 

grave. 
What sees he there ? A landscape, more bright, more 

strangely fair 
Tlian ever yet hath gladdened the realms of upper air. 
Over a briny ocean no longer doth he seem 
Borne by a lifeless framework of canvas, bolt and beam, 
But raised on spirit pinions through ether seas to go, 
With the old heavens above him, and a new world below. 
His brain swims as he gazes down many a fathom deep, 
Where plain and hill and valley alternate past him sweep ; 
Broad shining plains all sparkling with rippled sands of gold, 
O'erstrewn with gem-like pebbles and radiant shells untold ; 



166 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Hills clothed with graceful forests or rough with jagged rocks, 
Slopes purple as Hymettus, the wild thyme in his locks, 
Or ledges steeply shelving, whence silken tangles fall 
In broad and flowing fringes, as wrought for regal pall ; 
Valleys, where clustering thickets of crimson coral grow, 
Where flowers the fair astrea white as the maybloom's 

snow. 
"With pearly tassels drooping, the actinia here is seen, 
And there the crimpled sea-fan named of the foam-born 

queen ; 
Anemones and daisies and lilies scarcely blown, 
Arrayed in robes of splendor are o'er those gardens strewn. 
Not Jove's bloom-loving daughter e'er gathered buds so 

bright 
Where Mongibello weareth his crown of flame by night. 
Broad palm-like plumes are waving o'er beds of branching 

moss, 
And polished sea-vines flaunting in mazy turnings cross. 
Then twine in garlands braided with living buds and flowers, 
Whose amaranthine beauty shames Flora's choicest bowers ; 



THE AEEIYAL. 167 

Crowns wrought of purest crystal, or w^oven of burning stains 
As deep as ever kindled in old cathedral panes. 
Well might the Tyrian's cunning draw forth, of ocean-birth, 
A beam whose flaming lustre should pale the tints of earth ! 
Nor life nor motion lacketh that vision wondrous rare ; 
Moss, vine and wreath are swinging, as rocked by vernal air. 
Forth from the coral copses the glossy fishes dart 
In armor sheen enamelled beyond all power of art ; 
Now through the subtle fluid a single silvery flash 
Shoots silent as a moonbeam, and now with muffled plash 
In dazzling shoals they're flying, like flocks of timid doves, 
That scared by stranger footsteps in clouds forsake the 

groves. 
Medusas float in myriads, as light as mists of morn, 
Which melting in the sunrise are up the valley borne ; 
Now stainless as the dew-drops that gem the grassy spires, 
Now dyed with hues that rival the opal's changeful fires. 
Aye, bring your brightest jewels, your stones of clearest ray 
Before these ocean-glories their light will fade away !* 

* See Quatrefage's Souvenirs d'nn Ts'aturaliste. 



168 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Lost in o'erwhelming wonder the humbled youth exclaims ; 
" O Father, by the tenderest of all Thy chosen names, 
By Thy great love incarnate, forgive my soul that ^till 
Against Thine awful counsels hath raised a sinful will ! " 

What feverish throb of life our isle 

Now stirs, that lay so calm erewhile ? 

Why do they hurry to the shore, 

And send their searching glances o'er 

The roughening sea? What! know'st thou not, 

From Hamburg city news is brought, 

That Melleff, son of Amroom, late 

A slave in Barbary, doth wait 

In her safe port for wind and tide 

To waft him to our island's side ? 

To-day the breeze blows fresh and fair. 

To-day the favoring tide rolls high. 

To-day no sea-mists blind the air, 

The bark that bears him must be nigh ! 

The downs in panting haste they climb, 



THE AEEITAL. 169 

The young, the old, the weak, the strong. 
Even the poor widow of my rhyme 
I miss not from the happy throng. 
She gave her all to save the boy — 
Should she not share the father's joy ? 

Ah me ! the father ! who may know 

His heart, or knowing, think to show ! 

Silent he stands, as in a dream, 

Apart upon his chosen knoll. 

Within his eye no kindling beam. 

But patience strong within his soul. 

On his pale features none can trace 

The cheer that gladdens every face 

Save his. Yet is it strange that years 

Of blasted hopes and freezing fears 

Should rob him of the power to feel 

Assurance strong of coming weal 1 

That one so long, so deeply sad 

Forgets to smile, though he be glad ? 
8 



170 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

'A sail ? a sail V the questioning word 
In dc abtfiil murmurs first is heard. 
'A sail ! a sail !' the shout breaks loud 
And full from the rejoicing crowd. 
Aye, there it shines ! a point of light, 
And now a little silvery thing, 
As tiny as the sea-me^Y's wing 
When seen afir in distant flight ; 
Now with a fuller pinion spread, 
Higher it lifts its sun-lit head ; 
Onward the swelling cloud comes fast, 
Filled with the freshening western ])last. 
Now mast and model fairly show^, 
Now the flimiliar flag they know. 
Wolfe trembles. At his failing side 
The pastor stands, and strives to hide 
His own strong passion ; words of cheer 
He speaks ; the old man doth not hear. 
But ever nigher and more nigh 
The bounding bark comes dancing on ; 



THE AEEIYAL. 171 

Straight toward our isle her course doth lie. 

Let every chilling doubt be gone ! 

The winding channel now she threads, 

As one that well-known pathway treads, 

And now at anchor doth she ride ; 

They lower a boat — with waving hand 

A youth leaps down the vessel's side, 

The oars pull swiftly toward the strand — 

Distrustful father, fear no more ! 

Behold thy faith's long trial o'er ! 

Down every cheek the tears run warm, 

And prayers gush forth from every soul. 
As Wolfe, stayed by the pastor's arm, 
With staggering step descends the knoll. 
But ere his tottering feet can reach 
The shore, the boat hath touched the beach. 
The eager youth with one strong bound 
Leaps to the land — looks anxious round. 
Will no one greet him ? wherefore stand 
In such amaze that island band ? 



172 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

The old man's eye grows fixed and wild — 
Oh God ! 'tis not — 'tis not his child ! 
Fainting he sinks with murmur low, 
" My heart foretold the coming blow ; 
Grant patience, Thou who seest my woe ! " 
Around the stricken sire they group. 
O'er him with pitying look they stoop, 
They lift his head upon their knees, 
They bare his bosom to the breeze, 
Chafe the stiff hand, and still anew 
Wipe from his brow the chilling dew 
Cold as the gathering damps of death. 
Then listen for the silent breath. 

Ah, hapless stranger ! still alone 

Dost stand, unwelcomed and unknown ? 

Is this the hour to which for years 

Thy soul hath looked through toil and tears ? 

Is this the hope that made thee strong 

To bear the shame, the burning wrong ? 



THE ARRIVAL. 1Y3 

For this didst pray the lagging breeze 
To speed thy bark across the seas 1 
Yet stay — thou art not all forgot ! 
Though other eyes may guess thee not, 
Thy mother still doth know her son. 
Yea, though thou come to her as one 
Raised from the dead. Old Helda tries 
To speak — but words her tongue denies. 
Then, as if touched by charmed spell, 
From off her bending shoulders fell 
The weight of years, she stood upright. 
Her eyes beamed with their earlier light ; 
Forward she sprang — now, now he knows 
His mother — on her neck he falls, 
Her widowed arms about him close, 
And weeping, on his name she calls : 
"MellefF! my son — or do I dream'? 
Art thou my child, or dost but seem ? " 
Aye, aye 'tis he, thou may'st believe 
The lost is found, the dead doth live. 



3.74 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

The .shepherds' eyes are held no more, 

They give him welcome o'er and o'er ; 

And now they ask how all befell ; 

And now the happy youth doth tell 

That he, a slave in Tunis kept, 

Yor years in bitter bondage w^ept, 

Till sent from Amroom ransom came 

Tor captive that should bear his name. 

This burst his chains, and he hath come 

To die upon his island home. 

" And Melleff, son of ^yolfe— hast brought 

\ 

Tidings of him ?" He knoweth nought, 

Not even his captivity ! 

Old man, he brings no joy to thee ! 

The price sharp self-denial won 

Redeemed a slave, but not thy son ! * 



* There are no family names among the Frisians, the patronymic Wolf- 
son, Peterson, &c., serving to distinguish different individuals of the same 
Christian name. These names, too, are so few, that the same is borne by 
many, and of course such an accident as is described in the text, and is 
actually affirmed to have happened in the case narrated by Kohl, is by 
no means improbable. 



CANTO X. 

THE EESCUE, 

Where heaven's arch of flaming ether 
Sahara clasps in close embrace, 
Till 'twlxt upper fires and nether 
Scarce the doubtful line you trace, 
Mark yon lurid cloudlet swinging. 
Rolling, eddying, thickening fast. 
Broken sand-wreaths wildly flinging 
Out upon the stifling blast ! 
Is it then the robe that drapeth 
Samiel in its burning fold, 
And which thus he madly shapeth 
To his form of fearful mould ? 
Or the lightning's dread pavilion 



176 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Borne by fierce Euroclydon, 

With its fringes dyed vermilion 

In the blazing noonday sun 1 

Nay, not these 1 what then hath shaken 

Such a sand-shower o'er the plain 1 

Flying steeds that do not slacken, 

Steeds, whose riders draw not rein ! 

He that foremost sharply spurreth 

Wears a front that hero fits ; 

Some great deed his spirit stirreth. 

Triumph on his forehead sits ! 

On his arm a maid he stayeth, 

And her eye is calm and clear, 

And her queenly brow betrayeth 

Not a doubt, and not a fear. 

At his belt a sword is gleaming, 

Scarlet stains his vesture mar, 

Tides from many a gash are streaming, 

Purple wounds his visage scar. 

Close and sharp hath been the fighting ; 



THE RESCUE. 177 

Yea, for even the maiden's hand, 

Suited ill for deadly smiting, 

Grasps a short but blood-stained brand ! 

In the gest of that same maiden, 

In that hand with blood defiled, 

And with mortal weapon laden, 

Canst thou see the pacha's child ? 

In that form of stately bearing, 

In that look so proud and brave. 

In that deed of highest daring. 

Canst thou see the pacha's slave ? 

Tell me, to discern art able 

Fleecy cloud of sheenest ray 

In that band of awful sable 

Where the linked lightnings play ? 

Dost thou know the quiet mountain 

Where the humbled Titans sleep. 

When red flame and fiery fountain 

From the rent volcano leap ? 

So in gentle heart close hidden 
8* 



178 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Deep the electric current lies, 

Till, by some strong passion bidden, 

Forth the shattering levin flies ! 

So in manly heart, though breathing 

Scarce 'neath mountain-weight of woe, 

Boils a flood that yet with seething 

Lava-tides may overflow ! 

'Twixt the midnight and the dawning, 
Melleff" heard the cry of fear 
Mingled with the deathly groaning, 
Tramp of steed and clash of spear. 
* Was it thine, that shriek despairing, 
Sheltering angel of my life '? ' 
Headlong then, like lion glaring. 
Rushed he toward the sound of strife. 
But too late ! amain they're flying 
Through the moonlight with their prize- 
Nouglit he meets save dead and dying, 
And old Gerda with her cries. 



THE KESCUE. 179 

In a breath behold him mounted, 
Armed and dashing o'er the field, 
With him horsemen ten, all counted 
That might still a weapon wield. 
Close the robber-tracks they follow, 
Which the moon-rays still reveal, 
And the earth rings deep and hollow 
'Neath each flashing hoof of steel. 
Now, brave Melleft', now God speed thee ! 
Chains and wrongs thou hast forgot ! 
She, thy guardian, she doth need thee. 
Else thou dost remember nought ! 

Fast they ride till Phosphor waning 
Drowns in Phoebus' jets of gold, 
Fast they ride, and fast are gaining 
On the wild marauders bold, 
Who are thundering down the valley, 
Through the palm-grove far and fast. 
Till with maddening speed they sally 



180 WOLFE OF THE Kl^OLL. 

Out upon the desert waste. 
Christian, let thy courage fliil not ! 
Cheer thy feeble, fainting band ! 
Ere the noontide, if they, quail not, 
Yon proud sheikh shall bite the sand ! 
He hath marked his swift pursuer, 
Noted every shining lance. 
And behold ! their number feNver 
Tlian the third of those that glance 
At his bidding ! Lo, he turneth, 
Stays his followers in their flight, 
Bids them count the foe he spurneth. 
And address them to the fight. 

While the trembling girl he places 
In a faithful vassal's care. 
She hath seen where Melleff chases 
Hotly through the quivering air. 
She hath heard the fital order : 
" If, by ehar.cc thy chieftain fill, 



THE EESCHE. 181 

Bear the maiden o'er the border 
To Algeria's princely hall ! " 

Hark, the shock.! the clang of weapons ! 
They have met — the battle cry 
Rises shrill — the conflict deepens — 
How they charge, they wheel, they fly, 
Then return, the fight renewing. 
With a fierce and frantic yell, 
Thirsty sands with blood bedewing — 
Men are they, or fiends of hell ? 

Fatmeh, see ! now here, now yonder, 
How the bright-haired Northman wheels ! 
Stroke on stroke like rattling thunder 
With resistless arm he deals ! 
Count the lifted spears that quiver, 
Aimed at breast of Christian foe — 
Count the broken spears that shiver 
'Neath his swifter, surer blow ! 



182 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Now he fronts the bold Abdallah ; 
Fiery chief, how low he lies ! 
Furious shouts of Wallah ! Wallah ! 
From his maddened followers rise. 
Scathing flames of vengeance deaden 
Memory to all other thought ; 
Even he who guards the maiden 
Hath his latest charge forgot. 
Fierce he spurs, and fast he speedeth 
Toward the crimson battle-ring. 
Nor the shuddering Fatmeh heedeth, 
If she fall, or if she cling. 
Yet she clung, she saw them pressing 
On her wounded champion sore, 
Saw assailants still increasing, 
Saw his visage stained with gore ! 
Yet she clung ! convulsive holding 
Fast her warder's silken sash, 
And witliin its ample folding 
Sudden saw a dagger flash. 



THE EESCUE. 183 

Ere his hand, already lifted, 
Could at Melleff hurl the dart, 
She, with new-born virtue gifted, 
Plunged that dagger in his heart ! 

In a moment but who showeth 

How, in such a blinding fray. 

Where scarce foeman foeman knoweth — 

Safe on MellefF's arm she lay ! 

Wheeling then he swiftly darted 

O'er the wild, like winged light, 

And his little band, brave-hearted. 

Covered well that headlong flight. 

In that headlong flight behold them 

Scorching sand-waves scouring o'er, 

Though a backward glance hath told them 

That the foe pursues no more. 

See, alas ! the fair head droopeth, 
Faints with fasting and fatigue ; 
Yet the blasted waste stilJ slopeth 



184 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Eastward far for many a league. 
And not yet the charm is spoken 
By the magi of the West, 
Bidding crystal streams unbroken 
Gush from out its arid breast.* 
Fount refreshing, fruit-tree laden — 
Vain it were to seek them here ! 
Must she perish, hapless maiden, 
With a freedom bought so dear ? 

Melleff, through the air's hot glimmer 
Mark'st thou not yon lowly dome. 
With its white, its dazzling shimmer ? 
'Tis a holy Imaum's tomb ! 
Ishmael's sons, in death still yearning 
As in life, make latest choice 
Of the desert bare and burning, 



* The French have bored a considerable number of Artesian wells in 
the Algerine Sahara,, and similar operations have been carried on within 
a few years in Egypt, and other parts of Northern Africa. See an inter- 
esting article in the Revue de TOrieut, for September, 1858. 



THE KESCTJE. 185 

Where God heard their father's voice. 
To the sacred precincts hasten ! 
There, in memory of the dead 
Whose pure life was but this lesson : 
' Plelp thy brother in his need ' — 
Pious hands for desert ranger 
Store have left of choicest fruit, 
And to bless the thirsty stranger 
Bared the spring to its deep root.* 
Thither Melleff anxious flieth, 
And beneath the welcome shade 
Which the narrow dome supplieth, 
Softly lays the unconscious maid ; 
Then in trembling haste he bringeth 
Water from the scanty well, 
And the cooling drops he flingeth 
O'er her, w^ake her like a spell. 
Starting up, she names her father — 
"Gerda, why hast left me so 1 " 

* See Appendix IX. 



186 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

And, as one who clreameth rather, 
Closely clasps her throbbing brow. 

Oh, 'twere pity to behold her 
Pale as Cynthia's struggling ray, 
While the fever-mists enfold her 
That she strives to chase away ! 
Richer gifts of form and feature 
Ne'er did mortal maiden share, 
And to Melleif mortal creature 
Never shone so heavenly fair. 
He would die the doubt to banish 
That with darkness fdls her brain — 
Lo, the passing shadows vanish, 
And her eye is clear again ! 

" Aye, I know — yet why delay we ? 
My deliverer, wherefore wait 1 
Nefta's bowers lie far — why stay we ? 
And my father's grief is great ! " 



THE EESCUE. 187 

" Princess, let no doubt affray thee ! 
We but sought a moment's rest ; 
Take this draught, this fruit, I pray thee, 
And we ride at thy behest." 

Hurriedly the cup she draineth — 
What new tidings of dismay 
Brings the watchman, that constraineth 
Melleff even to blanch away 1 
They liave seen the dust-cloud rising, 
Steely lightnings flash it through ! 
Is its tawny mask disguising 
Welcome friend or dreaded foe ? 
Shall they fly, or shall they tarry 
Till the painful doubt be clear ? 
How the fickle judgments vary ! 
Now tliey hope and now they fear. 
AVith such burden wer't not better 
Friend to miss than foe to meet ? 



188 WOLFE OF THE ICNOLL. 

In the saddle they have set her, 
Off they dash at furious heat. 



Gallant heart ! was never braver 

On a noble purpose bent. 

But, alas ! thou canst not save her, 

For thy flagging steed is spent. 

Vain the spurring, the caressing ! 

Like the fire-wave's rolling flow. 

On thy track that cloud is pressing — 

Thou must turn and face the foe ! 

Foe — but stay ! whose pennon streameth 

High above the smothering haze ? 

Whose the armor bright that beameth 

Forth with such a ruddy blaze ? 

Now, be praise to Him that saveth ! 

For the right He doth decide. 

There Tunisia's banner waveth, 

There her noble lord doth ride ! 



THE EESCUE. 189 

How they send their shouts to heaven, 
Shouts of triumph and of cheer, 
When, as by a whirlwind driven, 
Aali with his train sweeps near 



CANTO XI. 

THE VISION. 

The night-lamp's feeble flame burns low, 
The trembling stars are looking through 
The checkered lattice, and their light 
Drops on the marble flooring bright 
As Luna's beam on Northern night. 
No flaunting silks, no stifling panes 
Of crystal, or of varied stains, 
Obstruct the brolcen rays that fall 
In silver fretwork on the wall. 
Where pearl with tortoise-shell coml/mes 
In a mosaic chaste and rare, 
Bordered with wreaths of golden vines, 
That seem outfloatinsr on the air. 



THE VISION. 191 

But gilded roof and arch are lost 
In shadows that no star hath crossed. 
A trickling fountain's lulling flow 
Unseen doth greet the listener's ear, 
While fannings of faint sweetness show 
The lily and the rose are near ; 
And there its drapery's glossy shine 
Alone the silken couch betrays, 
Where the j^ale Fatmeh doth recline. 
O'er whom in silence Gerda prays. 
For days hath frenzied fever laid 
His fiery hand upon her head, 
With phantoms dire her brain possessed, 
And filled her soul with dark unrest. 
The shadow of death's winoj is nigh ; 
Oh, will he smite her, or pass by ? 

At length the leaping pulses flow 
More calmly ; since the midnight hours 
She softly sleeps ; her breathing now 



192 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Is soundless as the breath of flowers. 
In the old nurse there stirreth naught 
Save the swift lightning of her thought, 
That knows a readier path to find 
To the far land that gave her birth, 
Than through the electric links that bind 
So close the once dissevered earth ; 
For she hath fasted, prayed and wept, 
Till the soul's vision, that had slept 
Somewhat from age, now backward cast. 
In one broad glance holds all the past. 

No more a weak and withered thing, 
Wasted by time and tears, she seems, 
But a young wife, whose fresh glad spring 
Is opening in love's sunniest beams. 
Again on Iceland's rocky coast 
She sits beneath the pole-star's ray, 
Its pale, calm shining well nigh lost 
In the wild North-light's dancing play ; 



THE VISION. 193 

Again her childish fancy paints 

Those silvery flashes as the light 

Left by the wings of blessed saints, 

Who take to God their happy flighty. 

Far to the east stands Hecla, crowned 

With roaring flame, and girt around 

With everlasting icy chains, 

Outpouring from his lava-veins 

Rivers of fire, that red and wide 

Are rolling down his snow-clad side. 

The boiling Geysers thundering shoot 

From seething fountains vast as seas 

That lie beneath his burning foot, 

And swing their arms upon the breeze, 

Like giant palms of crystal, wrought 

Till light as from Arachne caught. 

Of the old landscape, oh, how clear 

Each sight and sound strikes eye and ear ! 

And yet the midnight sun hath cast 

For fifty years his annual smile 
9 



194 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Upon the snow-peaks of that isle 
Since she hath looked upon it last. 
Looked last ! she shudders ; fatal sight ! 
Let l^ethe's mighty waters roll 
Over the memory of that night, 
And wash it from her troubled soul. 
But no ! that image cannot fade, 
'Tis drawn in blood upon her heart, 
Its crimson lines too deep inlaid 
To pale till soul and body part ; — 
The midnight yell, the bolt's sharp crash, 
The turbaned corsair*s demon eyes, 
The crescent-cimetar's keen flash 
'Neath which her murdered father lies, 
Her shrieking infant wrenched away 
From her and cast to earth like clay, 
The cries of the resisting band 
Led down despairing to the sea. 
The death-strokes dealt by Olaf 's hand. 
His groan of hopeless agony, 



THE VISION. 195 

When bleeding, dying, on the shore 
He lay, while hellish pirates bore 
His Gerda to their bark accursed — * 
These sights, these sounds of woe now burst 
Upon her senses with a power, 
A weight of horror, scarcely less 
Than in the first o'erwhelming hour 
That sealed her doom of wretchedness. 
Again the sea's deep moan she hears. 
Unmeaning words are in her ears. 
And now a fellow-captive's wail 
Is mingled with the sobbing gale. 

Yet are these memories more dim ; 
Soon as the crushing blow was dealt. 
Over her soul strange stupor came. 
The broken heart but little felt. 
That voyage of months — it fills no space 
On the broad tablet of her thought — 

* See Appendix X, 



196 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

A blackness that revealeth naught, 

A point alone that hath but place. 

But when they reached the hateful shore, 

Then was the unconscious respite o'er, 

Then did her tortured bosom swell 

With anguish wild, unutterable. 

The market-place — O Gerda ! why 

Wilt thou recall that agony ? 

Nay, pass it o'er ! pass all those years 

When day and night thy meat was tears — • 

Pass onward to the better hour 

That freed thee from a tyrant's power, 

And placed thee in young Maani's bower ! 

There gentle pity didst thou find 

With her, the generous, true and kind. 

Sweet Maani! through the Orient famed, 

The fairest rose that e'er had birth 

In far Circassia, meetly named 

Mother of beauty for the earth — 

Alas ! not hope that smiled before her. 



THE VISIOIT. 197 

Not all the love that Aali bore her, 

Not the dear infant on her heart, 

Could save her from the icy dart 

Of Death, whom grief, reproach and .prayer 

Alike have striven to move in vain. 

Since the first hour of his dark reign, 

The loveliest and the best to spare. 

From all that joy in life could waken 

Was the blest wife and mother taken — 

And she^ of every pleasure reft, 

The wretched, hopeless captive left. 

And yet — how strange ! the orphan child 

Turned first to that despairing face, 

And with a baby's matchless grace 

Stretched forth its little arms and smiled. 

Since then for Fatmeh hath she not 
Felt all a mother's heart could feel, 
And in that love nigh half forgot 
Herself a slave, an exile still ? 



198 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Now must she lose her ? will she die 1 
Old dame, the cruel thought forbear — 
'Twill slay thee ; turn again to prayer ; 
God will not leave thee utterly ! 
She stirs, she speaks, thy foster-child — 
Listen if still her words be wild ! 

" Gerda ! art here ? Oh, I have seen 

A vision of such bliss to-night, 

A glory so exceeding bright, 

God's j)aradise it must have been. 

I saw His blessed angels there, 

Saints crowned with immortality, 

I saw my mother wondrous fiiir, 

And knew her, though none showed it me 

Into her opening arms I flew. 

And on her soft and loving breast 

She rocked me to a sweeter rest 

Than ever weary childhood knew. 

It was not sleep, for I could see 



THE VISION. 199 

The glory still that circled me^ 

And I could hear from golden lyres, 

Swept by the hand of seraph-choirs, 

Harmonious ravishment that thrilled 

Beyond the power of song, that filled 

My being to its utmost core 

With rapture all undreamed before, 

And in my soul sweet longings stirred 

To be but one with what I heard. 

It was not sleep ! and yet I saw 

Not all those heavenly eyes discerned — 

I knew it by the holy awe 

That through their milder meanings burned ; 

The majesty reflected there 

Was all that mortal sight could bear 

Then one drew near with floating tread ; 
I knew her straightway ; it was she, 
Who in the garden of the dead 
Near Tunis, by the sounding sea, 



200 ' WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Doth sleep — the princess Moonkir Lore 
From Frankistan's remotest shore, 
And gave a rest so long, so' calm, 
On the blest shore of El-Islam, 
Beneath the aloe, by the side 
Of him for whom she meekly died. 
And very meek the smile that lay 
Upon her lips, as it would say, 
' Less worthy I the crown of light 
Than these who fought a better fight.' 
" Sister," she said — and her tones fell 
So softly that I cannot tell 
If it were sound — " Oh, learn of me, 
'Tis well to keep thy verity ! 
A holier cause than earthly lov^e 
Alone a maiden's heart should move 
To leave her father and her faith. 
Yet know, 'tis higher, greater fiir. 
To live and conquer in such war 
Than cowardly to call on Death. 



THE VISION. 201 

Die unto self! aye, nobly slay, 
With Allah's aid, that birth of sin 
Which eats thy budding wings away, 
And, grub-like, leaves but dust within. 
Then live to God for man, till He 
Take thee to His eternity ! " 
The vision passed w^hile yet she spoke, 
And full of joy and peace I Avoke. 
Gerda, 'tis not the moment now, 
Had I the power, to tell thee how 
My heart hath tempted me to fly 
With Melleff, or, renouncing, die ! 
Enough — at length my heaven-taught soul 
Pants high for a diviner goal — 
Is strong to take the longest road. 
The roughest, mortal ever trod, 
So it but lead at last to God — 
To lose for earth one single beam 
That crowned the pure immortal day 
Beheld in my departed dream, 



202 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Were price too heavy far to pay. 
Life's passing ills no more I blame, 
E'en sorrow scarce deserves a name, 
So brief her hour. Oh nurse, I know, 
This thou hadst taught me long ago. 
But happy youth will learn but slow ! 
Now my first prayer, 'let others see, 
Father, what thou hast shown to me,' 
And for myself but this alone, 
The first, the last, ' Thy will be done ! ' 
One work accomplished, then am I 
Alike content to live or die." 

She ceased, and fainting sank away 
More wan than the first daylight ray 
That full upon her forehead lay. 
The trembling Gerda hastes to shed 
The spicy waters on her head. 
Throws back the mantling cloud of hair, 
And bathes her in the morninsi; air. 



THE VISION. 203 

At last, the deathly weakness o'er, 
She lifts her languid lids once more. 

" Where is my father ? doth he wake 1 " 
" Aye, child and long, for thy dear sake." 

" Then pray him, of his love, come near, 
For I would speak what he should hear." 

The pacha stood beside her bed, 

The tears that manhood shames to shed 

Pressed back, and, stooping calm and slow, 

Kissed tenderly her ivory brow. 

" Father, my feet have stood to-nigh, 

Within the very gates of light ! 

Such grace hath Allah show^n to me 

That I am bold to sue to thee. 

Then, for my mother's sake and mine — 



204: WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Nay, rather, that God's face may shine 
On thee when thou shalt stand alone 
For judgment at his awful throne — * 
Oh, set thy Christian captives free, 
And send them safely o'er the sea ! 
What Melleff 's hand for me hath wrought 
This grace from thee hath nobly bought. 
Grant but my prayer — duty and love 
What else I cannot speak, shall prove ! " 

Again she swoons ! how like to death ! 
No fluttering throb, no faintest breath 
That marble stirs ! Oh, was she taught 
To live a true, great life for naught ? 
For naught ! is this thy wisdom's reach ? 
That lesson deeply learned, what more 
Doth the immortal on the shore 
Of time, which can no further teach 1 

* All shall appear at the Judgment, and every man alone. Koran. 



THE VISION. 205 

The father with a heay groan 
Turns from his child. With a low moan 
Upon her neck falls Gerda — nay, 
Now lift her not ! 'tis clay- to clay ! 



CANTO XII. 

THE EETUEN. 

On the mainland stood the sun, 

Looking \Yestward o'er the water, 

Till its glassy surface shone, 

Crimson as a field of slaughter. 

Wrapped in lightest autumn-haze 

Amroom rested on the ocean, 

"Whose broad breast had heaved for days 

Only with a tidal motion. 

Not a breeze, in cloudy car, 

O'er the morning sky was sweeping ; 

Hushed, all nature, near and far, 

Lay as in the calmest sleeping. 

Shepherds, silent as the scene. 



THE EETTJEN. 207 

Down their steepy hillocks wended, 
And to pastures paly green, 
With their eager flocks, descended. 
Why so gravely toward the sea — 
Each as neighbor neighbor passes — 
Point they, though upon the lea 
Not a zephyr stirs the grasses 1 
Do their quicker senses hear 
Aught that may the storm betoken ? 
To the sod now lay thine ear — 
Lo, the charmed silence broken ! * 
First by low and tender moans, 
As of music that complaineth, 
Then by deep and heavy groans, 
As when anguish strong constraineth. 
Now, as if the south wind passed 
Through the pine-tree softly, sadly, 
Now, as if the whirlwind's blast 
Smote the forest fiercely, madly. 

* See Appendix XI. 



208 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Nearer now, and yet more loud, 
As when voiced lightnings quiver 
Through the black tornado-cloud. 
And the reeling cedars shiver. 
'Tis the far-off chariot roll 
Of the west wind, wildly speeding 
Onward to its unseen goal, 
Man and his poor works unheeding. 
Woe to him whose careless sail 
On the tempest's track is flying ! 
Fathom-deep, ere daylight fail. 
Shall that hapless bark be lying. 
Though for hours these waters sleep 
Calm as 'lake in sheltering mountains, 
While afar the mighty deep 
Eolls upbroken to its fountains, 
Yet round Amroom, isle of storms, 
Shadows ere the sunset hover ; 
Night and cloud, their dusky forms 
Mingling, soon its face will cover. 



THE EETTIEN. 209 

Howling Avinds blow high and cold ; 
Fast the shrouding darkness thickens ; 
Safe to house his shivering fold 
Now his step the shepherd quickens. 
Haste to aid him, wife and child ! 
Lest, before the work be ended, 
Sky and shore and ocean wild 
In one midnight deep be blended ! 



All are sheltered ; thanking God, 
Round their scanty fire they gather, 
Calm they sit, as if abroad 
Shone the softest, sunniest weather. 
Not a glance of fear they cast 
At the hissing waters round them, 
Though the billow and the blast 
Rise as if no fetter bound them. 
Trusting in their Father's care, 
Who will leave not nor forsake them, 



210 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

With a short and childlike prayer 
They to needful rest betake them. 

Through the tempest's troubled roll 
Is there then no eye but sleepeth ? 
Aye ! for still uj)on the knoll 
Wolfe his patient vigil keepeth ! 
Even that last, that cruel blow, 
His unbroken faith surviveth, 
Saying still, with Job, ' 1 know 
Surely my Eedeemer liveth ! ' 
When from that long swoon he woke. 
Straight to Heaven did he address him. 
And the first fiiint words he spoke — 
' Though He slay me 1 will bless Him '- 
Scarce his shrunken lips had passed, 
When the postman's bark came flying 
O'er the cold gray waters fast 
Toward the beach where he was lying. 
Man of sorrow, lift thy head ! 



THE RETUEX. 211 

Comfort to thy heart it bringeth, 
Hope, whose very root seemed dead, 
Into sudden freshness springeth ! 
Letters in his hand they phiced — 
Letters, and his son doth send them ! 
Those clear lines so boldly traced, 
Who but Melleff 's self had penned them 1 
' He was free, on Christian land. 
Hurriedly was homeward pressing, 
And should reach their island-strand 
Ere the winter, with God's blessing ! ' 



From that hour Wolfe standeth strong, 
Cloudless peace his soul possesses ; 
Though the Avaiting hath been long. 
Not a doubt his heart distresses. 
Day by day and week by week, 
From the dawning until even, 
Still he gazes, childly meek, 
Seaward now, and now toward Heaven. 



212 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

And to-night, though winds are high, 
Friends in vain to rest entreat him ; 
" Sure," he saith, " my son is nigh, 
And I must be here to greet him ! " 

Hark ! the tide's advancing roar ; 
Shepherds, brief will be your sleeping ! 
Wave rolls wave against the shore, 
Each in scorn the last o'erleaping. 
Now the trembling mounds they smite, 
Close around their base« curling ; 
O'er the roofs with doubling might 
Briny flakes they now are hurling ! 
Cynthia, through the wind-rent cloud 
O'er her rising glory drifted, 
Sees above the foamy shroud 
Cot and down alone uplifted. 
How the cabins heave and rock 
On the feathery crested surges. 
While each quick returning shock 



THE EETUEN. 213 

Half the dripping thatch submerges ! 
Breaking faintly through the gloom, . 
Lo, the feeble taper gleameth, 
riieth fast from room to room, 
Through each narrow casement streameth ! 
They would save their household store — 
Hurriedly aloft they bear it, 
Pile it high above the floor. 
So perchance the flood may spare it ! 
Silent then, with awe-struck look. 
Close they press, while o'er them dashes 
Wave on wave, with thundering shock. 
And, beneath, the frail shed crashes. 

Where is Wolfe ? upon the down 
Still he stands with soul unshaken ; 
Ocean's rage, the sky's wild frown. 
Not a thought of fear can waken. 
Cloven billows, higher, higher. 
Round his pigmy isle are springing ; 



214 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Darting up like tongues of fire, 
To his very feet they're clinging ! 
Yet he heeds them not ; his eye 
Throusjh the blindino; nio-ht he straineth 
Toward the j)erilous road, where lie 
Ships, when stormy darkness reigneth. 
Lo, througli folded clouds the moon 
AVith her silvery arrow pierces, 
For a moment glances down, 
And the thickest gloom disperses. 
Some dark shape uj)on the tide. 
Heaving slow, his vision fancies, 
While along its blackened side 
Light and free the sea-foam dances. 
Dreamer, mocked for many a year. 
Oft the broken reed hath thrust thee ! 
Schooled so sternly, dost thou dare 
On a hope so frail to trust thee ? 
Yea ! and through that awful night 
With this hope his heart o'erflowetli, 



THE EETUEN. 215 

Joyfully expects the light, 
That the vessel surely showeth. 
Tond old man, alas for thee ! 
Other sight thine eyes awaiteth 
When the troops of darkness flee, 
And the angry flood abateth ! 

Now spent ocean seeks his bed ; 
Morning in the orient lightens. 
Robes the flying clouds with red, 
And the weeping islet brightens. 
Watcher, turn thee toward thy cot ! 
Lo, the angel that destroyeth. 
Save thy life, hath left thee naught, 
All in hopeless ruin lieth. 
On the turfless, crumbling mound 
Scarce an upright pile remaineth. 
While the shapeles^wreck around 
Even the hungry sea disdaineth. 
There the pitying neighbors throng, 



216 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

Crying, " Hath our God forsaken 
One that hath been tried so long ? 
Let his loving kindness waken ! " 

Brave old man ! that sight the while 

Stirs in him no strong emotion, 

But again with chastened smile 

Turns he to the throbbing ocean. 

There she lies, a noble ship ! 

And the tempest hath not scathed her, 

Though her shrouds and canvas drip 

With the drenching floods that bathed her ! 

Springing from its perch, a bark 

Wide its snowy Avings outstretches, 

Flies, like arrow to the mark, 

Isle-ward till the shore it reaches. 

Lo, he comes ! and faith hath won 

Her reward thai faileth never. 

" Now it is enough, my son ! 

Blessed be His name forever ! " 



THE KETUEN. 217 

Ye that, for love of the lowly, so long 

Have patiently followed my simple song, 

Do ye plain the lot of om' MellefF still, 

Though free over Amroom he w'alks at will 1 

Then ye know not how dear, if loved from birth, 

The dreariest sod of a sin-cursed earth ! 

Ye know not the bondman's bitter estate. 

The soul's keen joy with new freedom elate ; ^ 

Ye know not how sweet on a father's head 

The oil of gladness unmeasured to shed, 

To purple his sunset with purer dye 

Than ever had flushed in his morning sky ! 

Ye know not 'tis blesseder far to see 

The idol we worship stretch suddenly 

The wings of its glory, and fill the place 

With brightness that proveth its heavenly race — 

Though at last it soar, in its shining flight. 

Too high to be followed by mortal sight — • 

Oh, blesseder far, than our incense to w^aste 

On what but seems with divinity graced, 
10 



218 WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

To kneel for long years, and cast at its feet 
Our heart's best gifts as an offering meet — 
Yet the altar still cold, nor voice nor sign 
Proclaim the fair image indeed divine — 
To see its proud colors fade day by day, 
Its faultless lines crumble slowly away, 
Till we find, at last, 'tis but common clay ! 



APPEiXDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KJfOLL. 



I. 

For a mightie great compasse, their countrey lieth so under the 
Ocean, and subject to the tide, that twice in a day & night by turnes, 
the sea overfloweth a mightie deale of ground when it is floud, & 
leaveth all drie again at the ebbe & return of the water : insomuch, as 
a man can hardly tell what to make of the outward face of the earth 
in those parts, so doubtfull it is between sea and land. The poore siUie 
people that inhabit those parts, either keepe together on such high 
hils as Nature hath afforded here & there in the plain : or els raise 
mounts with their owne labour and handle Avorke (Uke to tribunals 
cast up and reared with turfe, in a campe) above the height of the sea, 
at any Spring tide when the floud is highest ; and thereupon they set 
their cabines and cottages. Thus dwelling as they doe, they seerae 
(when it is high water, and that all the plaine is overspread with the 
sea round about) as if they were in Httle barkes floting in the middest 
of the sea : againe, at a low water when the sea is gone, looke upon 
them, you would take them for such as had suffered shipwracke, hav- 
ing their vessels cast away, and left lying ato-side amid the sands : for 
yee shall see the poore wretches fishing about their cottages, and fol- 
lowing after the fishes as they go away with the water. They have 
not a four-footed beast among them : neither enjoy they any benefite 
of milke, as their neighbour nations doe : nay, they are destitute of 
all meanes to chase wild beasts, and hunt for venison ; in as much as 
there is neither tree nor bush to give them harbour, nor any weare 



220 APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 



unto them by a great way. Sea-weeds or R^ke, rushes and reeds 
growing upon the washes and meeres, serve them to twist for cords to 
make their fishing nets with. These poore soules and siUie creatures 
are faine to gather a sliraie kind of fattie mud or oase, with their very 
hands, which they drie against the wind rather than the Sunne ; and 
with that earth, for want of other fewell, they make fire to seeth their 
meat (such as it is) and heat the inward parts of their bodie, readie to 
be Starke and stiffe againe with the chilUng North wind. No other 
drinke have they but raine water, which they save in certaine ditches 
after a shower, and those they dig at the very cntrie of their cottages. 
And yet see ! this people (as wretched and miserable a case as they 
bee in) if they were subdued at this day by the people of Rome, would 
say (and none sooner than they) that they lived in slaverie. Pliny, 
Natural History, Book XVI. Chap. I. 

II. 

The ambassadors Verritus and Maloriges (in Frisic probably Fred- 
dens und Malrichsen) were complimented by an invitation to the 
theatre of Pompey, to witness a public entertainment. Being re- 
garded as rustics, or rather semi-barbarians, they were not conducted 
to the box reserved for the imperial and royal diplomatic circle, but 
shown to seats in the second tier. Enquiring of their valet de place 
who the dignitaries were in the conspicuous lodge occupied by the 
foreign ministers, they were told that these were their Excellencies, 
the ambassadors from the kings and the great nations of the earth. 
Upon this, they exclaimed, "Na worum schalt wi denn do nich sittcn ? 
Sin wir Freschen denn nich eben so god as de annern ? Wat ji Romers 
nich, det de Diitschen bater upkloppen kiint, un mehr Tril un Globen 
haft as de alle tosomen ! " which Tacitus expresses in a very pompous, 
Italian, and un-Frisic way : " nullos mortalium armis aut fide ante 
Germanos esse." They now made their way, without ceremony, to 
the diplomatic box, and took their seats with the other ambassadors, 
which, as Tacitus says, was well received, as a sample of primitive 
spirit, " comiter a visentibus exceptum quasi impetus antiqui." Kohl, 
Vol. II, p. 825. 



APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 221 

III. 

Water is usually distributed to private houses in the east by carriers 
provided with goat-skins holding seven or eight gallons. These are 
filled at public fountains erected by the charity of the rich, and the 
water is sold in the streets, and very generally given freely to the 
poor. 

" I was one day sitting," says Prax, " at the door of a coffee-house, 
when a boy came up with a full water-skin. He cried, ' Whosoever 
shall give four nasseri (one cent and a half) to relieve the thirst of the 
poor, shall see the mercy of God upon himself and his ancestors ! ' I 
gave him the four nasseri, and drank from a cup presented me by the 
sakka. He then offered the water to all comers, crying, ' ye that 
are athirst ! behold water given for the love of God ! May the donor 
of this water see the mercy of God shed abroad upon his fathers.' " 
Revue de I'Orient, November, 1849. 

IV. 

The Prophet is traditionally reported to have said : Upon him who 
is hospitable God will bestow twenty gifts : 
Wisdom ; 
A sure word ; 
The fear of God ; 
A heart always glad ; 
He shall hate none ; 
He shall not be proud ; 
He shall not be jealous ; 
Sadness shall flee away from him ; 
He shall hospitably receive all ; 
He shall be beloved of all ; 

He shall be respected, though he be of humble birth ; 
His goods shall be increased ; 
His life shall be blessed ; 
He shall be patient ; 
He shall be discreet ; 
He shall be always contented ; 



222 APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

He shall care little for the good things of this world ; 

If he stumbles, God shall uphold him ; 

His sins shall be forgiven him ; 

And, finally, God shall preserve him from the evil which may fall 
from the heavens or rise from the earth. 

Be generous to thy guest, for he cometh to thee with his good : 
when he entereth in, he bringeth thee a blessing ; and when he de- 
partcth, he carrieth away thy sins. 

V. 

A Ilallig preacher described to me his arrival in his parish much 
as follows : 

" My reception was very touching," said he, hardly able to repress 
his tears. " How so, pastor ? " asked I. " Well, I came down the 
geest (the mainland) with my wife, in a heavily-loaded waggon, for we 
had, besides our clothing, many things that good friends here and 
there had given us, to help our housekeeping on the Hallig. We 
reached the shore a day later than we expected, and found the boat 
that had been sent over for us lying by the dike. The poor people 
had waited two days, and had uncomfortable quarters in the mean 
time. They welcomed us, took our baggage on board, and we shoved 
off. We soon approached a waste, treeless island, and I asked the 
men if that was their Hallig. They took off their hats, and answered, 
' Yes, pastor,' and I turned to my wife, and said, ' There, my child, 
that is the island where we are to live ! ' When we landed on the 
Hallig, we found the whole congregation assembled, men, women, and 
the children too, which much affected me. ' Did some one of the 
committee or the elders make a formal speech to you ? ' asked I. 
' Oh no, not that.' ' Did the women and girls sing a song of wel- 
come ? ' ' Oh, no ; these good people never sing but in church.' I 
got out of the boat, helped my wife out, and said to them, 'Good 
morning, my dear children ! I have brought you your pastor and 
pastoress. God bless you ! ' ' Did the girls scatter flowers before you, 
or bring you wreaths ? ' ' Oh, no, they have no flowers.' The men all 
came and pressed my hand in silence, and the women caressed us, and 



APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KN^OLL. 223 

patting our shoulders, said, ' Good pastor and dear pastoress ! It is 
very kind of you to be willing to be our pastor and pastoress ! ' And 
then they gathered up our boxes and bundles, each one taking a par- 
cel, and led us to our house, which they had nicely swept and aired. 
The old men whispered to me that I need not fear for my salary, for 
they had collected it, and were ready to pay the whole sixty thalers* 
in advance. Then they showed me my garden-plot, and the church, 
which had also been swept. ' Had they dressed it with green branches ? ' 
' Oh, no, they have neither branches nor trees, but they had hoisted a 
flag, which was waving in the wind, as they do on all festive occasions.' 
Many of them were affected to tears, and my wife and I could not 
control our emotion." Kohl, I. 349. 

The usual period of leaving the islands (to engage in foreign mari- 
time service) is St. Peter's day, which falls on the 29th of June. Many 
small vessels are freighted with mariners bound for the ports of Hol- 
land, and the wives, mothers, sisters, and sweethearts of the departing 
sailors assemble to bid them adieu. They gather upon an old heathen 
funeral mound in the island of Fohr, in their antiquated and picturesque 
costumes, accompanied by children and superannuated mariners, and 
make farewell signals from shore to ship, and from bhip to shore, as 
long as they remain in sight of each other. St. Peter's day is also the 
general business day of the island. Old debts are paid, new ones in- 
curred, and especially matrimonial engagements contracted, so that it 
is at once the most important epoch of the yeai', and an anniversary 
around which many of the most painful as well as tender and hopeful 
associations chng. Kohl, Vol. I. p. 155. 

YII. 

Amber is found in considerable quantities on the coasts of Schleswig- 
Holstein, the neighboring islands, and Jutland, as well as on the south- 
ern shores of the Baltic. It is thrown up on the beach by tempestuous 

* Sixty thalers, or about forty-five dollars, is the annual salary of a Hallig pastor 



224: APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE IvNOLL. 

weather, and sometimes on strands where the rise of the tide is so 
rapid that the gatherers of amber find it necessary to seek for it on 
horseback, in order to be able to escape from the returning flood. A 
single piece sometimes sells for several hundred dollars, but success in 
the search is so uncertain that it is, upon the whole, an unprofitablti 
occupation. 

In one of the North-Frisian dialects, amber is called gUes^ a name 
known to none of the Germanic family, but which is evidently identi- 
cal with the glesum of Tacitus (whence also the appellation Insulas 
Glessariae, or amber-islands.) Sed et mare scrutantur, ac soli omnium 
succinum, quod ipsi glesum vocant, inter vada atque in ipso litore, 
legunt. Tacitus de Germania, XLV. Kohl, Vol. III. p. 245. 

According to an Arabian traveller of the tenth century cited by 
Ritter, Erdkunde, XIII. 749, the camels of Hadhramaut were employed 
in seeking amber upon the coasts of the Red Sea, being taught to kneel 
when they saw it glitter in the moonshine. 



YIII. 

The sand was drifting up day and night, and it was found impossible 
to make the windows and doors tight enough to exclude it, nor did it 
avail to shovel out the perpetually renewed incumbrance. Too poor to 
build a new church, the people continued to occupy this as long as 
possible. 

The floor, and then the pews, were covered, the pulpit itself half 
buried in sand, and the congregation were seated upon the sand around 
it. At last the church was so nearly filled up that they could barely 
creep in at a window. 

Divine service was now held in the church for the last time, the con- 
gregation broken up, and the building sold. 

The purchaser employed such of the wood as he could save, in con- 
structing a house, reserving the altar and the pulpit for finishing the 
cabin of his ship. On what far coast the vessel Avith her consecrated 
cabin-furniture was stranded at last, none could say. Kohl, Vol. II. 
p. 15Y. 



APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 225 



IX. 

Sidi-Mohammcd-el-Gandouz, who lived, died and was buried on th*e 
Bpot where the piety of the faithful has since raised the marabout or 
funeral-chapel which bears his name, was renowned for the hospitality • 
which travellers and the poor received from him. 

Passing caravans aided his charities by leaving with him dried meats, 
flour, dates, butter, &c., which he distributed among the poor, Avhose 
supplies were exhausted, and the indigent pilgrims who came to visit 
him and pray with him. The practice has been kept up since his de- 
cease. No caravan passes his tomb without stopping to pray and leave 
a donation. All comers are allowed to enter the chapel, eat their fill, 
and satisfy their thirst ; but woe to him who should carry any thing away ! 
He would surely perish on his journey. ' There is none to watch the 
offerings, but there is no instance of the abuse of this ' hospitality of 
God.' 

Charity, saith the Prophet, extinguishes sin, as water quencheth fire. 

It closeth seventy gates of evil. 

An angel standeth at the gates of Paradise, cryiug ; " Whosoever 
giveth alms to-day, shall be filled to-morrow." Daumas,rAlgerie. 95, 

X. 

In the year 162'7, four Barbary corsairs visited various points of 
the coast of Iceland, plundered or destroyed churches, houses, and 
other property, killed thirty or forty of the natives, and carried off 
three hundred and fifty captives, among whom were two clergymen, 
with their families. Several causes, among which the principal was 
the treachery of persons who were intrusted with means to ransom 
them, prevented their release until 1635. 

Some of them having become renegades, and many having died or 
been sold into distant slavery, only thirty-seven were found, and of 
these but thirteen lived to regain their native land. A brief notice of 
these occurrences will be found in Finn Jensen's Hist. EccL Islandia-, 
Vol. III. p. 83, and more particular narratives were published by Olaf 
Egilsson, one of the captives, by Klas Eyolfsson and by Bjorn a Skardsa 
10* 



APPENDIX TO WOLFE OF THE KNOLL. 

XI. 

Our guide drew our attention to a roaring sound proceeding from 
the sea, which he said indicated a change of wind, and the approach of 
a storm. We heard a distant noise, which was more distinctly percep- 
tible on applying the ear to the ground on the flats. Near us all was 
still, and as far as we could see, the finest weather. But in the far dis- 
tance, there was a roaring and raging, as if all nature was in commotion. 
We could hardly imagine that it proceeded merely from the concussion 
of drops of water, and bubbles of foam. It sounded as if beams of wood 
were tumbling over each other, and shattering to splinters, and often 
there were harsh and clearly defined noises, as if a heap of cannon balls 
or rocks were rolling down a mountain. The sounds indeed were not 
so loud as when near at hand, but they were sharper, more rattling and 
crashing, so that it seemed scarcely possible that water could produce 
them. Kohl, II. p. 2'7. 



POEMS. 



POEMS. 



NIOETHK AND SKATHI 



The third god [after Odin] is he who is named Niorthr ; he dwells 
in heaven, where it is called Noatiin ; he rules the going of the wind, 
and stills the sea and the fire ; on him should men call in seafaring and 
fishing. He is so rich and lucky, that he can give to those who ask 
him much land or loose-goods. * * * * Kiorthr has a wife named 
Skathi, the daughter of the giant Thiassi. Skathi would occupy the 
dwelling-place of her father ; it is on certain fells, where it is called 
Thrumheimr ; but Niorthr would five by the sea. They agreed to 
this ; that they would stay nine nights at Thrumheimr, and then other 
nine at Xuatun. And when Niorthr came back to Nuatun from the 
fell, he chanted this : 



Lei5 erumk fjoll, 
varka ek lengi, 
nsetr einar ix. ; 
ulfa f)ytr 

raer Jjotti illr vera 
hjd. sungvi svana. 


Tired am I of the fell, 

I was not long there. 

Nine nights only ; 

The wolves' howling 

Seemed to me ill, 

To the song of the swans. 


Then Skathi chanted this : 




Sofa ek mattat 
saefar beSjum d. 
fugls jarmi fyrir; 
sa mik vekr, 
er af vi6i kemr, 


Sleep I could not 

On the sea shore 

For the screaming of the bird; 

He wakes me, 

That comes from the sea, 


morgun hverjan mar. 


The mew, every morning. 



230 POEMS. 



Then Skathi went up to the fells, and dwelt in Thrumheim. She runs 
much on snow-shoes, carries a bow, and shoots wild animals ; she is 
styled the snow-shoe goddess. Edda Snorra Sturlusonar, Gylfaginning, 
K. 23. 



SONG OF NIORTHR. 



I WEDDED flxir Skathi, 
The mountain nymph free, 
And bride was there never 
More winsome than she ; 
The crimson that dyeth 
Her cheek and her lip, 
Is richer than sunset 
On ocean asleep — 
Yet my stay was not long — 
Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 

As lustrous and wavy 
Her ringlets of gold 
As cloudlets of summer. 
Fold roll in or o'er fold. 



NIORTHR AND SKATHI. 231 

The voice of her laughter 
Is sweet as the brook's 
When he hides in the valley 
'Neath moss-covered rocks. 
Yet my stay was not long — 
Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 

The towers of her flither 
Black crags overhung, 
.« And downward, till evening, 

Their cold shadows flung ; 
The sun they close followed, 
Still holding, the while. 
Their ice-covered mantles 
'Twixt us and his smile. 
So my stay was not long — 
Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 

For how could I slumber ! 
All night the storm's breath 



232 POEMS. 

Wailed low through the valley- 
Like moanings of death, 
Then smote, in its fury. 
The fir-tree that bowed, 
And snapped like a bow-string, — 
The w^olves howled aloud. 
So my stay was not long — 
Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 

Clouds burst on the summit, 
And down its washed side 
The avalanche thundered. 
The hollows replied. 
Then prayed I fair Skathi 
To fly, the tenth morn, 
With me to the sea-shore 
Whereon I was born ! 
Thus my stay was not long — 
Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 



NIORTHR AND SKATHI. 233 



SONG OF SKATHI. 

Oh, Niorthr, my bridegroom, 
Was comely and brave 
As e'er for her lover 
A maiden could crave ! 
But he ill brooked the mountains, 
And on the tenth day, 
We sought the wild sea-shore 
Whereon his home lay. 
Yet my stay was not long — 
Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 

The halls of his father 
Stand close by the wave ; 
Around the tide lashes, 
The ocean gales rave. 
There how could I slumber ! 
Allnio-ht the salt foam 



234: POEMS. 

Dashed full at my casement — 
I wept for my home — 
And my stay was not long — 
Nh;e nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 

At dawn scarce I slumbered 
When lo, the wild mew 
Came over the water 
And waked me anew ! 
I love not his shrieking, 
I love not the roar 
Of billows high breaking 
Against the steep shore ! 
So my stay was not long — 
Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 

Above the mad breakers, 
Hoarse roaring so nigh, 
I heard the poor sailor's 
Last choking death cry. 



NIOETHR AND 6KATHI. 235 

At dawn, the tenth morning, 
I fled to the fell, 
And Niorthr fast followed, 
He loved me so well ; 
Yet his stay was not long — 
Nine nights and no more — though his love was so strong ! 

Again he was restless — 
Grew haggard — once more 
I bound on my snow-shoes. 
We flew to the shore ! 
There soon my pale bridegroom 
Refreshed him with sleep, 
But I — I heard ever 
The dirge of the deep ! 
So my stay was not long — 
Nine nights and no more — though my love was so strong ! 



A FABLE. 

A WIDOW, poor and old and lonely, 
Whose flock once numbered many a score, 
Had now remaining to her only 
One little lamb, and nothing more. 

And every morning, forced to send it 
To scanty pastures far away, 
With prayers and tears did she commend it 
To the good saint who named the day. 

Nor so in vain ; each kindly patron — 
George, Agnes, Nicholas, Genevieve — 
Still mindful of the helpless matron, " 
Brought home her lambkin safe at eve. 



A FABLE. 237 

All-saints'-day dawns. With faith yet stronger, 
On the whole hallowed choir the dame 
Doth call — to one she prays no longer — 
That day the wolf devoured the lamb ! 



THE MAID OF THE MEKEY HEAET 

At the sunrise hour who seeks the bower 

Of the Maid of the Merry Heart? 
'Tis a soldier dight in armor bright, 

And he comes to say — " We part." 

With a pleading look her hand he took, 

And his pale lips trembled long, 
Ere the timid word was faintly heard — 

" One kiss — it will make me strong." 

But with blushes dyed, the maid replied, 

" 'Tis the victor's meed I trow ! 
When the laurels twine that brow of thine. 

Then the boon will I bestow." 



THE MAID OF THE MEKEY HEAET. 239 

" And if with the dead," the soldier said, 

" On the battle-field I lie. 
Forever I miss the costly kiss 

That thou coldly dost deny ! " 

Then a playful smile she tried, the while, 

And a careless speech to frame — 
" I will kiss the rose that freshly blows 

O'er thy mound of deathless fame — 

" I will kiss the moss — the holy Cross 

Where it shines above thy rest — " 
Ere the light words passed her tears fell fast, 

And she sunk upon his breast. 



A LAY OF THE DANUBE 



THE WISSEHRAD. 

Pilgrim of the imperial Danube! pause 'neath yonder height, 
Where a crumbling castle standeth draped in sunset light, 
Like a hoary king, stout-hearted, who his throne doth fill, 
Though with age he tremble, totter, clad in sliining purple 
still ! 

Climb those towers, and mark the river rolling calm and 
wide, 

Till the frowning mountain-giants dare defy his tide ! 

Mark where he, through flinty columns, cuts a pathway free, — • 

Dashes rightward, leftward, forward, throbbing, panting, to- 
ward the sea ! 



A LAY OF THE DANUBE. 241 

On those banks the angry nations gathered them of old, 
Northern hordes and Southern legions joined their battles 

bold, 
Till the dark, cold waves were flowing red and warm Avith 

blood — 
Hideous Hun and haughty Roman, how they choked the 

crimson flood ! 



There, the sweet old rhymers tell us, Etzel held his court, 
When he made, at Kriemhild's suing, feast for high disport, 
Bidding fair her royal brothers from the distant Rhine — 
Ah ! ill-fated Nibelungen, wherefore did ye not divine 

That an injured, vengeful woman, — though her message fell 

Loving as became a sister — could not mean you well ! 

All in vain the pitying mermaids warned them hence 

to fly- 
There, betrayed, the homelorn heroes died as heroes still 

should die ! 
11 



242 POEMS. 

'Neath the very towers thou scalest, now the spoil of fate. 
Once a noble Magyar monarch kept his kingly state — 
Great Corvinus, who Mohammed's flooding hosts could stem, 
He by Rome's throned bishop counted worthiest Stephen's 
diadem. 

There below, within the valley, lay his gallant men. 
Resting from their hard-earned triumphs o'er the Saracen ; 
And a strange, wild tale is told us from that gray old time, 
Ever still of love and sorrow — would'st thou learn it, hear 
my rhyme ! 

11. 

THE MAGYAR MAID. 

'Twas a day when Autumn hazes floated soft and still, 
Lighter than Titania's vesture, over sky and hill ; 
And the sun, flushed as a lover, left the earth so fair 
With his golden smiles of promise filling all the rosy air. 



A LAY OF THE DANTTBE. 243 

On the further bank a maiden stood, at that sweet hour, 
Pourmg o'er the bleaching linen flist the needful shower. 
Humbly born this duty proved her, yet if queen might wear 
On her brow such regal beauty, crown were never wanting 
there. 



Now upon the turf she resteth,by the night-wind fanned, 
Holding still the dripping pitcher with a careless hand, — 
More like some immortal keeper of a fountain head, 
Such as antique sculptures show us, than a simple mortal 
maid. 



Yet the fires of shifting passion burn in her daA eye, 

And her lip now smiles, now trembles, all too humanly ; 

Toward the camp her face still turneth through that change- 
ful cheer, 

And the anxious glance she sendeth now is longing, now is 
fear. 



24A POEMS. 

So she leaned till twilight faded and the moon's broad beam, 
Slanting o'er the hills, with silver bridged the quivering 

stream ; 
Yet she leaned, all breathless w^atching, till a shadow ran, 
Swifter than the winged arrow, full across that shining span. 

Sudden o'er those marble features shot a passing glow, 
Faint as Borealis-flashes cast on Northern snow. 
Then a cold and stiffening tremor shook the lovely form. 
And her head fell like the lily 'neath the chariot of the storm. 

Noiseless as the downy-breasted swan might touch the 

bank, 
Came a lightly burthened shallop 'gainst the rushes dank ; 
To her feet the maiden started as a soldier sprung 
From the bark, in warrior mantle, and his arms about her 

flung. 

One bright smile of love all trusting on her lips there lay 
Like a sunbeam, then grew colder till it died away. 



A LAY OF THE DANUBE. 245 

And a cloud of doubt spread slowly o'er her forehead wide, 
While beneath, from lids uplifted, shot the lightning-flash of 
pride. 

Night's thin curtain from the lover could not hide such 

change ; 

Low he questioned, " My beloved, wherefore art thou 
strange ? 

Hath false friend or envious rival whispered cause of fear 1 

By Saint Stephen! but the traitor shall aby his rashness dear ! " 

Silent, and as one who gathers strength for utmost need, 
For a moment stood the maiden, till her drooping head 
Rested meek upon his shoulder — then, with rapid gest, 
Back she threw the shrouding mantle — and the monarch 
stood confessed ! 

Swift as ever slid the wild bird from the fowler's hand. 
Through his clasping arms she glided, darted toward the 
strand, 



24:6 POEMS. 

And, ere he, abashed, bewildered, of her thought was ware, 
Deep beneath the rolling river plunged her shame and her 
despair ! 

Headlong the remorseful lover follows down the wave, 
Catches at the floating raiment, but he cannot save — 
For the hero, conscience-stricken, weakens to a child, — 
On the bank once more he standeth,pale and anguish- wild ! 

Well, O king, thy heart might fail thee ! never from that 

night, 
Cold and mute a spectral-shadow ceased to haunt thy sight ! 
Blood of Paynim, tears repentant — all in vain they flowed. 
Still the sad, reproachful vision, unappeased, before thee 

stood. 

Even yet, the reapers tell us, may that maid be seen 

When the tender autumn cometh, rolling mists between ; 

From the parting flood she ris-es ere the stars are bright, 

And her phantom-web outstretches far, to bleach beneath 
their light. 



A LAY OF THE DANUBE. 247 

Then a tall and helmed soldier draweth to her side, 

And the trembling shade doth speed her 'neath the wave to 

hide! 
When the lingering years, they tell us, to a thousand run, 
Only shall the lovers rest them from the long, long penance 

done. 



DANIEL, THE CISTEECIAN. 



In the gallery of the monastery of Osseg, one of the oldest religious 
foundations in Bohemia, is a picture representing a Cistercian named 
Daniel, whose cell is illuminated during his hours of nightly study, by 
a light proceeding from his own hand. 



Apart, on bleak Bohemian height, 
The gray old monastery stood, 
Encircled by a frowning wood, 
And 'twas the dead of night. 

The meek Cistercian in his cell 
Lay watching through that hour of gloom ; 
And black as vaulted, lampless tomb, 
The darkness round him fell. 



DAiTIEL, THE CISTERCIAN. 2-i9 

What shakes him ? not the storm abroad — 
That moves in his calm soul no fears — 
But, through its awful roar, he hears 
The still small voice of God ! 

" Rise ! son of man, while yet 'tis night ! " — 
Such were the words the w^hisper spake — 
" Rise straightway ! pen and parchment take, 
And what I bid thee, write ! " 

Even through that saintly heart there sweeps 
A questioning thought, " O how obey ? 
Thick is the darkness, and the day 
Far down the orient sleeps ! " 

" Rise ! and thy God shall give thee light ! " 

Again the voice commanding said ; 

Abashed, he started from his bed, 

And sought wherewith to write. 
11* 



250 POEMS. 

Scarce had his trembling fingers raised 
The tablets, felt for long in vain, 
When lo ! the hand that touched the pen 
With sudden brightness blazed ! 

The glory filled the narrow cell, 
And, ever as the monk would write, 
Still from his hand the heavenly light 
Full on the parchment fell ! 

And thou — hath darkness quenched thy day ? 
Is Fortune's tempest wild without ? 
Within, the dreadful night of doubt 1 
In what thou canst, obey ! 

" Rise ! walk ! " he saith ; what though thy track 
A horror of great darkness hides ! 
First rise, obedient, as he bids, 
And light thou shalt not lack ! 



THE FOUNTAIN OF THE TOOK. 

AN ARAB LEGEND. 

BisMiLLAH ! the Merciful ! Full of Compassion ! 
All praise be to Allah, the Lord of Creation ! 

Sidi Aomar — on whom be peace ! — 

Was the servant of God, the most high ; 

He was poor, yet he prayed not his goods might increase, 

And his heart ever hated the lie. 

Rising at dawn, in his tent's low door 

With a hand ever open he stood, 

Never turning his face from the old, or the poor. 

Or the stranger invited of God. 



252 POEMS. 

Eblis, the angel that fell, was wroth 

With this man of a life without blame, 

And he sought before Allah, with impious mouth, 

Both his faith and his works to defame. 

" Sidi Aomar, thy slave," he cried, 

" Is a hypocrite full of disguise ! 

He is poor, and because he hath naught, in his pride 

Thus he feigneth him wealth to despise ! 

*' Give him but riches till riches abound. 
And his heart will soon wander from thee ! 
The fair slave, the fleet steed, and the flying hound 
He will seek, and do service to me ! " 

God, the Companionless, answering, said, 
" Thou art Eblis, the father of sin ! 
Now thy witness of falsehood be on thine own head 
• That the soul of my servant would'st win ! " 



THE FOUNTAIN OF THE POOK. 253 

" Give me then leave, that eftsoons I show 

This Aomar as weak as the rest ! " 

" On the morrow, 'twixt dawn and the sunrising, go, 

Put the strength of my saint to the test ! 

" Yet ware thee well, for, a trembling slave, 
Thou shalt serve him henceforth, if thou fail ! " 
" Be it so," said the fiend, " and no better I crave, 
If I know not the man I assail." 

" Prayer," said Aomar, " is better than sleep ! " 
As he rose ere his eye, by the light 
That so doubtfully hovered afar on the steep. 
Could discern the black thread from the white.* 

Solemn and glad, to the scanty well 

Of his tribe, like a prophet he goes — 

Lo ! the pitcher, that there he hath bowed him to fill, 

With the purest of silver o'erflows ! 

* The morning prayer of the faithful Mohammedan should commence, 
as soon as he can distinguish a white thread from a black one. 



254 • POEMS. 

" Giver of life ! " said Aomar, " I sought 

Not this silver, but water alone 

For ablution, that pure, as the prophet hath taught, 

I might send up my prayers to thy throne ! " 

Casting the treasure among the sands, 

Yet again the full crock doth he raise — 

It is brimmed, not with water for worshipping hands, 

But with gold of the ruddiest blaze ! 

. " Hearer of prayer ! " said this mortal meek, 
As he poured the red gold on the earth, 
" Not the wealth of this world, but pure water I seek, 
That for Thee hath a holier worth ! " 



Yet once again from the well he drew, 
And behold ! with a flash like the sun 
At his rising, rich jewels, in gush ever new, 
His rude pitcher of clay overrun. 



THE FOUNTAIN OF THE POOR. 255 

Silent he gazed, and with troubled eye, 

On the jets as they blinding] y played ; 

Then to earth cast the crock with a penitent sigh, 

And with forehead uplifted he said, 

" How have I sinned, O thou Giver of good ! 
That this day thou dost water deny 1 
Must I ^vash then with sand like the pilgrim on road, 
When he prays where no well-spring is nigh 1 " 

Scarce had he spoke when a crystal tide 
Bathed his brow with its fresh'ning spray ! 
And the flow of that fountain shall never be dried ! 
'Tis the ' Well of the Poor ' to this day ! 

Amen ! be the life of the living contrition ! 
The bed of the dying, the bed of submission ! 



THE WATEK OF EL ARBAm, 

O'er wide Arabian deserts toilinor slow, 

With heat and travel spent, 
With fever parched, our zemzemieh * low, 

Day after day we went. 

Till now at Sinai's granite foot we lay, 

The noontide sun beat sore ; 
Then we arose and took our weary way 

Through sand and flints once more. 

Close was the rugged valley, dry and bare, 
Walled in with adamant, ^ 

Whose sides reverberant, with blinding glare, • 
Hurled back each sun-dart slant. 

* Name given to the leathern water-bottle used in the East. 



THE WATEE OF EL ARBAIN. 257 

Yet onward still with trembling limbs we trod, 

As erst the chosen flock ; 
\nd saw where legend saith their prophet's rod 

Had cleft the eternal rock. 

But thence, alas ! no crystal streams now rolled 

The thirsty soul to bless ; 
Alone remained, of all those marvels old, 

The fiery wilderness. 

At length with blackened lip and bloodshot eye, 

Scorched by the Simoom's breath, 
I turned in anguish toward the brazen sky, 

And prayed for drink — or death. 

Then darkness gathered o'er my swimming sight. 

Fast whirled the dizzy brain, 
And the hot fever-throb, with fuller might, 

Coursed through each liursting vein. 



258 POEMS. 

Still to the fainting pilgrim words of cheer 

The sons of Ishmael spake, 
Told of a well of living water near, 

That deathly thirst to slake ; 

And pointed to a verdant garden-close 

Within the vision's scope. 
Where El Arbain's rude, shattered arches rose 

On Horeb's blasted slope. 

There, pillowed soon beneath that welcome shade, 

I heard the fountain's drip, 
Then felt the o'erflowing cup of coolness laid 

Against my burning lip. 

Oh! never juice, drawn from the choicest vine 

Whose favored root is fed 
At the pure sources of the boasted Rhine, 

Or oldest river's head, — 



THE WATER OF EL AEBAlN. 259 

Nay, not Valhalla's honey'd cup so rare, 

By souls of heroes quaffed, 
Not old OlymjDian nectar might compare 

With that divinest draught ! 

Cold as the ice-born flood from Northern steep, 

Clearer than Indian wave, 
Sweet as nepenthe drowning care in sleep, 

A second life it gave. 



O quickening fount! may thy bright currents roll 

In everlasting flow, 
And on the latest wanderer's fainting soul 

A blessing like bestow ! 

Know, too, O mortal, thou whose rougher path 

Lies through a world of sin. 
Without, the deadly arrows of its wrath, 

Its fever-fire within, — 



•260 POEMS. 

When sorrow, doubt, despair assail thy life, 

Till thy crushed heart confess 
It fain would choose, before such bitter strife, 

The grave of Nothingness, — 

A well-spring, whose high source is heaven, doth wait 

Upon thy travail sore ; 
There drink! and thou shalt rise as re-create, 

Nor thirst for evermore ! 



AXEL. 

FROM THE SWEDISH OF TEGNfiR. 

ESAIAS Tegner, Bishop of Wexio, the greatest of Swedish poets, 
was born in 1*782, and after a distinguished academical as well as pro- 
fessional career, died in 1846. His most celebrated work is Frithiofs 
Saga, which has been made accessible to the English-speaking public 
by five or six translations, none of them, however, by any means satis- 
factory. But his reputation was first established by several lyrical 
pieces, by the Children of the Supper, so finely rendered by Long- 
fellow, and by Axel, a version of which is here given in the metre of 
the original. When the present translation was made, the author of 
it was not aware that Axel had ever appeared in an English dress, but 
she has recently seen parts of a version by Latham, and a complete 
one by Bethune. The former of these would not have deterred her 
from undertaking another, and she hopes that the one here offered 
may not be found inferior even to the latter in closeness of conformity 
to the spirit and letter of the original. 

The olden time is dear to me, 

The olden time of Charles's glory, 

Gladsome as conscience pure, its story, 

And spirited as victory. 

In Northern lands, its reflex even 



262 POEMS. 

Yet lingers on the verge of heaven, 

And forms majestic come and go, 

In yellow belt and tunic blue, 

Where red the sky of evening burneth. 

With awe mine eye upon you turneth, 

Ye heroes of an age more bright, 

With martial buff and broad-sword dight ! 

One veteran from that age victorious, — 
bi childhood's days I knew him well — 
Erect he stood amongst us still, 
A trophy ruined, but yet glorious. 
With silver of a century shone 
His locks, (to him none else was given,) 
And on his brow deep scars were graven 
Like runes on monumental stone. 
True he was poor ; yet he but jested 
With poverty, familiar grown ; 
Frugal as in the field, alone 
Within his woodland hut he rested. 



AXEL. ~ 263 

Two treasures did the old man own, 

'Gainst which earth's wealth as nothing weighed, 

His Bible, and his trusty blade 

With Charles the Twelfth writ fair thereon. 

The great king's deeds, now found recited, 

"Where countless pens have them indited, 

(For wide that eagle flew around,) 

Stood in his memory recorded, 

Eanged like the urns of warriors hoarded 

Within a grassy funeral mound. 

When he some great exploit was showing 

Of young King Charles, his ' blue boys ' bold. 

How high he held his forehead old, 

With what a fire his eye was glowing ! 

And from his lips each word that fell 

Kung like the clash of smiting steel. 

Ear into night he often sat 

Talking of former days so famed. 

And never, when King Charles was named, 

Would fail to lift his well-worn hat, 



264 POEMS. 

Wondering I stood beside his knee, 
(For scarcely higher reached my head,) 
And pictures of those heroes dead 
From boyhood still remain to me, 
And tales now half-forgotten lie 
Dimly within my memory, 
As 'neath the snow sleeps in its seed 
The lily, when its flower is fled. 

Peace to his ashes ! they repose 
Long since within the quiet earth. 
The saga his ; take it, North, 
And weep with me o'er Axel's woes ! 
But 'gainst the old man's words of flame 
My simple rhymes must needs be tame. 

The mighty monarch lay at Bender ; 
His wasted lands had no defender, 
Disgraced his name, so glorious late, 
And as a wounded champion yet 



AXEL. 265 

Fights, though on bended knee, and feeling 

The chill of death upon him stealing, 

So fought each man behind his shield, 

Desperate, but scorning still to yield ; 

For hope of rescue there was none 

In any breast save his alone. 

The king, though hurricanes were shaking 

The leaves of fate, though earth seemed quaking, 

Stood calm as arch that hath defied 

The bursting bomb 'mid ruins wide. 

Or rock that breasts the raging wave, 

Or Fortitude beside a grave. 



One evening he to Axel said, 

" Take thou this letter ! " — and he laid 

The missive in his hand — " now ride 

Towards Sweden straight, this even-tide. 

See that thou rest not, day or night, 

Till our old mountains greet thy sight ; 
12 



266 POEMS. 

Before my council there thou'lt lay 
The letter — and God speed thy way ! " 

Young Axel loves to ride amain ! 
The letter in his belt with joy 
He hides. His sire, at Holofzin, 
Fell fighting by his king ; the boy — 
Thenceforth the camp's adopted child — 
Grew up 'mid wars and tumults wild. 
'Twas a fair form, such as our North 
Doth sometimes even yet bring forth, 
Fresh as a rose, but tall and slim 
As Sweden's firs in youthful prime. 
His arched brow was high and clear 
As heaven's vault when no cloud is there, 
And every feature bore impress 
Of frankness and of earnestness. 
His eye transparent seemed as given 
To look with hope and confidence 
Up to the God of day in Heaven, 



AXEL. 26Y 

Yet without fear to turn their glance 
Downward to him, who, shorn of light, 
Dwells 'neath the shadow of the night. — 

Tn the king's guard 'twas his to hold 

A place among his soul's own kin ; 

A little band, whose number told 

Seven, like the stars of Charles's Wain, 

Or, like the Muses, nine at most, 

All strictly chosen from the host ; 

By fire and sword proved well and long, 

A troop of Christian vikings strong, 

Not unlike those who whilom clave 

With dragon-ships the dark-blue wave. 

Within no bed might they repose ; 

On the hard earth their cloaks they spread, 

And there, mid storms and drifting snows, 

Slept calmly as on flowery mead. 

A horse-shoe with the naked hand 

They twisted. None e'er saw them stand 



268 POEMS. 

Round chimney fires ; they rather chose 
The warmth of heated ball that glows 
lied as the day-star, when he sets 
In blood on Northern winter nights. 
It was their law, that on the field 
To less than seven one might not yield, 
E'en in retreat must face the foe, 
A flying back they might not show. 
Lastly, this law — and harder yet, 
Perhaps, than all the rest beside — 
None on a maid his heart might set, 
Till Charles himself should take a bride. 
Though eyes of heavenly blue might shine, 
Or rosy lips wear smiles divine. 
However snowy breasts might heave, 
Like swans rocked on the limpid wave, 
Nor eye nor heart the charm must feel, 
For each was married lo his steel. 

Young Axel saddled glad his steed, 



AXEL. 

And rode both day and night with speed, 
Till he on Ukraine's border stood — 
A flash of steel within the wood ! 
Sabres and lances quick iipspring, 
And round him close a glittering ring. 
" Dispatches thou dost bear from Bender ; 
Dismount, and to my hand surrender 
Thy charge, — or die ! " His ready blade 
A plain, a Swedish answer made ; 
Grown sudden meek, the speaker bowed 
To earth, and weltered in his blood. 
With back against an oak-tree stayed, 
His desperate game the hero played. 
At every whiz of his good sword 
A knee was bowed, and life-blood poured. 
Nobly he kept the oath they made — 
One against seven — why, that were naught ! 
One against twenty, flew his blade. 
He fought as once Rolf Krake fought, 
Striving, since hope of life was none. 



269 



270 POEMS. 

For company in death alone ; 

And gashes purple-lipped declare 

His fate inevitably near ; 

The blood around his heart grows chill, 

His hand, though glued to sword-hilt still, 

Is numbed ; thick shadows veil his sight. 

And faint he sinks to darkest night. 

Halloo ! the woods are echoing round ! 
And falcon bold, and trusty hound 
Pursue their game. Behold ! a troop 
Of flying huntsmen gallops up, 
And, dashing foremost of the train, 
On dappled steed, in habit green, 
With rosy cheeks, fair as the sun, 
Rides, whirlwind like, an amazon. 
The robber-band affrighted fled. 
Her courser started at the dead ; 
Then with a bound she leaped to earth — 
And there he lay, stretched like an oak 



AXEL. 271 

Among the brushwood, by the stroke 

Of a fierce tempest from the north. 

How fair he seemed, though bathed hi blood ! 

And leaning over him now stood, 

MxVRiA, as once Dian fair 

Descending from her heavenly sphere, 

On Latmos, from the chase withdrawn, 

Stood over her Endymion. 

The sleeper that enchanted her 

Than this could not be lovelier. 

Within his pierced and mangled breast 

A spark of life yet feebly glows. 

And straight her followers frame in haste 

A litter of the greenwood boughs ; 

And placing him thereon with care, 

They bear him to her dwelling near. 

The maiden sat beside his bed. 
With pity filled and anxious dread, 
And on those features pale she cast 



272 POEMS. 

A look whose worth a realm surpassed ; 
She sat beside him like a rose, 
III fair but now fast wasting Greece, 
Wild and luxuriant that grows 
Beside a fallen Hercules. 
At length from deathly swoon he wakes. 
Looks round amazed, and hurried speaks. 
Alas ! his eyes, but late so mild, 
ITave suddenly grown fixed and wild. 
" Where am I ? Girl, what wouldst thou have 1 
No woman's eye may rest on me, 
No tears of thine my wounds may lave ! 
To Charles I've sworn it solemnly. 
My father walks the Milky Way ! 
He's wroth ! that oath he heard me say ! 
And yet how fair to mortal sense 
The enchantress ! Demon ! get thee hence ! 
Where is my belt ? My letter and — 
'Twas written by the king's own hand ! 
My father's sword is good ! It bites 



AXEL. 273 

Right greedily the Muscovites 

What joy to strike, and see them fall ! 

Oh, that King Charles had witnessed all ! 

They fell like grain before the knife ! 

I half seemed wounded in the strife. — 

The letter I to Stockholm bear. 

My honor's pledged to take it there. 

Dear are the moments ! Up ! to horse ! "— 

Such, wild with fever, his discourse ; 

And then the hero deathly j)ale 

Back on his quiet pillow fell. 

Then death contended long with life 
Over the youth in doubtful strife. 
Life conquered ; slow the peril passed. 
And Axel now could view, at last, 
With conscious eye, though weak and dim. 
The angel that still watched by him, — 
Not one of those idyllic maids. 
Who sighing walk in verdant shades, 



274: POEMS. 

A counterfeit of pining thought, 
With tresses yellow as the light, 
Cheeks pale as violet of the night, 
And eyes like the forget-me-not. 
Eastern her blood ; her black locks lie, 
Like midnight round a bed of roses, 
Where on her forehead bold and high 
Glad courage — the sole true — reposes ; 
Like victory graven on the slfield 
That warrior-maiden bears in field. 
Her hue fresh as in painters' dreams 
Aurora crowned witli radiant beams ; 
In form she seemed an Oread, 
And dancing was her step and glad. 
And high her swelling bosom heaves 
With youth and health ; together weaves 
The lily with the rose her frame ; 
Her soul a j)iu-e ethereal flame, 
A southern summer-heaven complete 
With sun and flowery odors sweet. 



AXEL. 275 

And in her eye's dark glance there strove 
A heavenly and an earthly light, 
Now flashing like the bird of Jove 
Proudly from the empyrean height, 
Now mild as Aphrodite's doves 
Drawing the chariot of the Loves. 

O, Axel ! of thy wounds the smart 
Soon passes, only scars remain ; 
"Without, thy breast is cured of pain ; 
But ah ! how fares it with thy heart ? 
Look not so loving on the hand 
That binds thy wounds with healing band — 
The hand that white as marble shows — 
In thine it never may repose ! 
It bears more peril to thy peace 
Than those hard hands of Osmanlis, 
That late at Bender thou hast seen 
With sabre armed and carabine. 
Those fresh red lips, that only ope 



2Y6 POEMS. 

To breathe of comfort and of hope, 
111 tones as from tlie spirit-world — 
'Twere better thou shouldst hear again 
On Pultowa's ensanguined plain 
The thunderbolts Czar Peter hurled ! 
When, trembling and with pallid mien, 
Thou goest to breathe the summer balm, 
On thine own sword, O Axel ! lean, 
And not upon that rounded arm. 
Which seems as 'twere by Cupid made 
To be the pillow for his head. 

Wonder of heaven and earth ! O, Love ! 
Thou breath from blissful realms above ! 
Spark of Divinity, that cheers 
Our darkness in this vale of tears ! 
In Nature's breast the beating heart, 
Comfort of Gods and men thou art ! 
Drop seeketh drop in ocean's bed. 
And all the stars above us tread, 



AXEL. 277 



Whirling from pole to 2:>ole, each one 
A bridal dance around its sim. 
Still art thou to the human soul 
A reflex, faint memorial, 
Of brighter, better days, when, even 
Yet but a child, she dwelt in heaven — 
That azure hall, whose roof is set 
With many a starry crown of light. 
Where nightly she, with joy o'erblest, 
Sank in her father's arms to rest. 
Rich as the gifts of fancy are, 
Her only language then was prayer. 
And every fair and winged child 
Of heaven on her a brother smiled. 
She fell to earth ! since that, not even 
Her love is pure ; yet doth she trace, 
With joy, in the beloved's face. 
Some look of former friends in heaven 
And song of poet or of spring 
Doth to her ear their lost tones bring. 



278 POEMS. 

Oh, happy is the exile then, 
As wandering Swiss, who hears again 
Some note of home, that doth restore 
Boyhood and Alpine heights once more ! 

'Twas evening ! Twilight wrapped in gold 
Lay dreaming on her western bed, . 

And, mute as Egypt's priests of old. 
The stars their solemn marches led. 
And earth below that sky so flxir 
Stood lilvc a bride, in whoso dark hair 
Rich gems are flashing, blush and smile 
Playing beneath her veil the while. 
Tired with the pleasures of the day, 
In smiling sleep the Naiad lay. 
And tranquil Evening sat at rest, 
A red rose shining on her breast. 
The little Cupids, that had lain 
Bound by the sunshine, free again, 
Now gaily on the moonbeams ride. 



AXEL. 279 

With bow and quiver at their side, 

Where Spring, through greenwood arches, Late 

!Made entry in triumphal state. 

Forth from the oak the nightingale 

Strikes out her song that fills the vale — 

SojEl, innocent, and pure that strain, 

As some sweet lyric of Franzen. 

In all, it seemed as Nature said, 

* Behold, the hour for tryst is made ! ' 

All life, yet silence so complete, 

Thou mightst have heard her great heart beat. — 

Then, conscious of the happy charm, 
The youthful pair walked arm in arm. 
As plighted lovers rings, so these 
Exchanged their childhood's memories. 
He talked of bright days when he dwelt 
'Neath the red roof maternal, built 
Of the hewn fir-tree, and that rose 
Among the pines mid Northern snows ; 



280 POEMS. 

Of the dear land where he was bred ; 
Brothers and sisters long since dead. 
He told, as well, how, many a time, 
The old, the deep heroic rhyme, 
And saga-volume parchment- bound, 
Had wakened longings so profound 
For great exploit. In dreams of night 
He seemed a warrior armed for fight, 
And mounted on the tall steed Grane, 
Like mythic Sigurd Fafnisbane, 
He rode through magic fire-wall straight 
To sage Brynhilda's castle gate, 
That flaming in the moonlight stood, 
Encircled by a laurel wood. 
The house grew close, his breath not free, 
Then to the forest would he flee, 
And climbing, with a boy's delight, 
The fir-top where the eagles light. 
Would sit, rocked by the northern blast, 
Till cheek and heart were cooled at last. 



AXEL. 281 

What joy to mount the swift cloud-car 

That rolls above him, and afar 

Be borne beyond the narrow seas 

Out to a fairer world than this, 

Where Victory beckons, Glory stands, 

Chaplets for heroes in her hands, 

And where King Charles, (whom scarce he owns 

Seven years his senior), plucketh crowns 

With his good sword, and instantly — 

how divine ! — gives them away ! 

" At fifteen, could my mother's fears 
No longer keep me ; bathed in tears 

1 fell upon her bosom ; then 

Toward Poland turned my steps, since when, 

As watch-fire steady, my life's flame 

Hath burned amid the battle-game. 

Yet never parent bird I see 

Feeding its young caressingly, 

Never upon a fair child look 

Playing with flowers beside the brook, 



282 POEMS. 

But, sudden, war's attractions cease, 
And in my soul sweet thoughts of Peace 
Arise, with groves and golden grain, 
And laughing children in her train ; 
And by a quiet cottage door, 
The rosy twilight glowing o'er 
Her face, a maiden stands, the same 
That oft has blessed my boyhood's dream. 
Of late, these images of rest 
My soul unceasing have possessed. 
I close my eyelids ; they appear 
Only more life-like and more clear. 
And she who crowneth every scene — 
Maria ! thou art still that queen ! " 

• ^ Confused and blushing said the maid, 
" Happy the lot of man indeed ! 
Strong man ! no fetter beareth he, 
E'en from his childhood, is he free. 
And danger's charms, and glory's crown, 



AXEL. 283 



And heaven and earth are all his own. 
But woman — hers a different lot ! 
]\Ian's mere appendage to the last ; 
A bandage for his wounds ; forgot 
Soon as the fretting pain is past ! 
She is the offering, he the fire 
That glorious heavenward doth aspire !- 
My sire in Peter's wars did fall, 
My mother's face I scarce recall. 
The desert's daughter grew up wild 
Within these walls, an idol child 
Honored by slaves, who meek endure 
Each vain caprice of tyrant power. 
A noble spirit feels its shame, 
Dwelling with souls so basely tame ! 
Hast ever on our boundless plain 
Seen the wild steed of noble strain 1 
Fiery as hero, fleet as hind, 
He scorns to own a master's care ; 
With ears erect, turned to the wind, 



284 POEMS. 

He stands and scents the danger near, 
Then scouring in a whirlwind cloud 
Of dust, o'er the wide steppe he flies, 
Fights his own fights with hoof unshod, 
Untamed enjoys, untamed he dies ! 
' Sons of the wilderness so free, 
How fair, how blest, your life must be ! ' 
I cried, and bade them check their speed, 
"Whene'er my neighing Tatar steed, 
A bitted slave, e'en to a word 
Obedient, bore me to the herd ; 
But the troop heeded not my cry, 
And, scornful snorting, thundered by. 
Nor could my spirit free as air 
The castle's endless sameness bear ; 
With zeal I learned the sylvan war, 
'Gainst bird and beast of prey went forth. 
And oft scarce saved from paw of bear 
A life that only then had worth. 
But ah ! we bend not Nature's will ; 



AXEL. 285 



In lowly hut, or on the throne, 

A seamstress or an amazon, 

The woman is the woman still ; 

A vine that droops if naught sustain, 

A being of its half forlorn, 

To w^hom all joys unshared are vain, 

Whose every pleasure is twin-born ! 
This quick pulsation that is fraught 

With suffering, yet a joy to feel — 
This longing for I know not what, 
So painful and so gladsome still — 
It hath no aim, it hath no bound ; 
As if on wings, I leave the ground 
And soar to Heaven, whose starry dome 
Of blest immortals is the home, 
Then downward to the earth I fall, 
To you, dear forms ! familiar all ; 
Ye trees that Avith me have grown up. 
Thou hillock with thy flowery top. 
Thou brook with all thy songs of love — 



286 POEMS. 

• 

I've seen, I've heard you, all these years, 

But as a statue sees and hears. 

Now first, now first, my heart ye move ! 

I feel my soul, less selfish grown, 

Is of a purer, higher tone 

Since first," — but here a sudden red 

The maiden's features overspread ; 

She paused ; a smothered sigh confessed 

The thought her words but half expressed. 

His song renews the nightingale, 

While lists the moon, 'neath cloudy veil ; 

And in a long unending kiss 

As warm as life, nor faithful less 

Than the still grave, their souls, set free, 

Melted in one blest harmony ! 

They kissed as on the altar-stone 

Two flames kiss and become but one. 

Which, glowing with a stronger light, 

Soars loftier in its heavenward flight. 



AXEL. 287 

For them, gone was this world of ill, 
And Time in mid career stood still. 
Of this poor mortal life each hour 
Is bounded, meted by time's power. 
Love's kiss and death's alone may be 
Named children of eternity. 
The happy pair ! in fire earth's frame 
Might roll, they would not see the flame ; 
The firmament of heaven might rock 
And fall, they would not hear the shock ! 
The Genius of the North and South, 
Thus had they stood with mouth to mouth, 
And passed, unconscious, in that kiss, 
From earthly into heavenly bliss ! 

From that elysian flight, earthward 
Came Axel first. " Now by my sword. 
By the pure honor of the North, 
And by yon stars that there stand forth 
Like white-robed bridemaids shining down, 



288 POEMS. 

For earth and heaven thou art mine own ! 
Far, far removed from war, what bliss. 
Within some friendly vale, where peace 
Sheltered by mountains dwelleth free, 
Could I but live and die with thee ! 
But ah ! an oath my soul doth chain ! 
With pallid cheek and glance of ire, 
It lays an icy hand between 
Our hearts that burn with holy fire. 
But fear not ! all shall yet be well ! 
Redeemed, but never broken, shall 
Mine oath be ! Now I must away ! 
When to her feast of flowers fair May 
Next bids us, I am here again 
To fetch my bride, my wife ! — till then, 
Sweet maid, than life more dear to me, 
Half of my soul ! farewell to thee ! " 

He spoke, — and turning at the word, 
Reclasped his belt, resumed his sword, 



AXEL. 289 

And straight set forth, his journey through 

The Czar's wide empire to pursue. 

Concealed within the woods hj day, 

By night he held his rapid way 

Towards heaven's firm key-stone, shining forth 

The changeless pole-star of our North. 

And gentle Charles's Wain, that yet 

In ocean s waves hatn never set, 

That wain with shafts all silver bright. 

And wheels that blaze with golden light. 

And now, a thousand perils past. 

Through hostile troops he comes at last 

To Sweden's capital, that hears. 

With wonder, what her hero dares, 

And to the councillors the king's 

Letter and greeting faithful brings. 

Meanwhile, within her lonely halls 

On Axel's name Maria calls ; 

She sighs it through the woods profound, 
13 



290 POEMS. 

Teaches the hills and vales its sound. 

" What oath can hold him in its band ? 

Some maiden of his native land 1 

Some former love 1 can this be true ? 

My heart protests there ne'er are two ! 

Thou snow-veiled maiden of the North, 

Or one of us must die, or both ! 

The Southern fire thou dost not know ! 

Far as thy frozen lakes may lie 

Among thy mountains clad in snow. 

I'll seek thee ! thou shalt surely die ! 

But stay ! — a child he left the North, 

Nor since, the country of his birth 

Hath §een, and from the camp's fierce cry 

Love, timid Love, is wont to fly. 

No stain on brow that's arched like thine ! 

There only truth and honor shine. 

In thy pure glance I've read the whole, 

The deepest secret of thy soul, 

As the keen eye of day looks through 



AXEL. 291 

The fount's clear depths of silvery blue. 

Why fleest thou then 1 And doth tlmt vow 

Bind thee my heart to break ? And how — 

But ah ! in space my murmurs die ! 

A widow among graves I sigh, 

A dove, that heaven and earth doth fill 

With her complaints unanswered still ! 

Ah ! forests sigh and billows flow 

Between us, and he hears me not. 

What if I follow ! But, oh no ! 

That for a woman ill were thought. 

A woman ! Who shall know ? I'll wear 

A sword, and lo ! the man is there ! 

With peril have I often played, 

For life and death a die-cast made ; 

As grown to courser, bold I ride, 

My bullet ne'er hath' swerved aside. 

Some angel prompteth this design — 

Now Axel, Axel ! thou art mine ! 

I'll seek thee in the distant North, 



292 POEMS. 

I'll seek thee through the wide, wide earth, 
From shore to shore, from dell to dell, 
And force thee that same oath to tell ! 
Bear me, O War ! upon thy wing, 
Till me to Axel's land thou bring ! " 

Thus spoke the maid ; so said, so done ! 
Resolve and action are but one 
With woman. Lo ! the change complete ! 
Tlie helmet hides her locks of jet, 
Strong buff her bosom's wealth enfolds, 
Powder and ball her knapsack holds. 
And o'er her shoulders white and fine, 
Death's engine hangs, a carabine. 
From girdle like fair Dian's zone, 
Pendent a flashing sabre shone, 
And round her lips she drew a shade, 
Of downy beard that semblance made, 
And much it seemed as one should choose 
With dusky crape to wreathe a rose. 



AXEL. 293 

With belt and sword liow like she grew 

To Cupid turned a hero too, 

As blazoned on the glittering shield 

The son of Clinias bore in field ! 

" Home of my fathers, fare thee well ! 

I trust, in love and peace I may 

Return, once more in thee to dwell ; 

But now I can no longer stay. 

Fold me within thy veil, O Night ! 

And to my Axel aid my flight ! " — 

Already on a border won 

Under the eyelid of the North 

Grown drowsy, stood Czar Peter's town. 

There mortgaged crowns from the whole earth 

Are gathered now ; then in its creek 

Still small it lay, but dragon-like. 

It shows the serpent, though so young ; 

As in the sun-warmed sand he coils, 

He hisses with his forked tongue, 



294: POEMS. 

Within his fangs the venom boils. 
'Gainst Sweden, armed with fire and sword 
There lay a squadron ; thitherward 
Maria bent her course, and where 
Swords glance and banners flout the air, 
She seeks a place on board the fleet 
That soon the Swedish hosts shall meet. 
The leader of that savage horde 
Eyed her full sharply, with the word, 
" More dangerous, methinks, young swain ! 
Thou'lt prove to Northern maids than men. 
We'll send thee ! 'tis not to be feared 
That they will pluck thee by the beard ! 
But war's stern art thou'lt learn from them 
Right thoroughly. 'Tis no child's game ; 
Tor life and death the venture's tried, 
God and Saint Nicholas decide ! " 

The sails fill fast, the keels ride free 
In foam upon the Baltic sea ; 



AXEL. 295 

Soon in the sunset's glowing light 
The Swedish mountains rise to sight , 
Defying time and tide they stand, 
A giant beacon nature-planned. 
They landed then at Sotaskar — 
A name to faithful hearts most dear — 
There for the last time Hjalmar parted 
With Ingeborg, there broken-hearted 
Died the fair maid, when Odin's call 
Summoned her hero to his hall. 
Around that cliff her soul doth hover 
Sorrowing e'en yet for her lost lover. 
Leueadia of the North ! thy fame 
Once great in saga, now forgot ! 
But Hjalmar's death-song keeps thy name, 
And poet-hearts forsake thee not ! 

From town to town the flames blaze hi^h. 
The children shriek, the women fly. 
For Russian w^arfare well they know ; 



296 POEMS. 

And all the neighboring country through, 
Both night and day the church-bells s\Ying — 
But naught thy dead to life can bring, 
Thou land bereaved ! Thy champions bold, 
Thy towers of strength, the gi\ave doth hold ! 
But Sweden's danger now calls fn-th 
Old men and boys to save their North, 
With swords that served Gustavus, when 
Blood on Germania's soil was spilt. 
And halberds that had crossed the Belt, 
Now blunt, but used to victory then ; 
And many a l^lunderbuss appears 
Whose rusty matchlock proves its years. 
'Twas all that Sweden still possessed — 
A little troop, and, for the rest, 
111 armed, but without doubt or fear 
Against the invader they draw near. 
But 'twas no fight of man to man ! 
Eound him a cloud the f^eman threw, 
And from the cliff courage in vain 



AXEL. 297 

Would seek to scale, his lightnings flew, 
And, unchastised. Death's tireless hand 
Mowed the thin ranks of that small band. 

As comes the avenging god of war 

With belt and hammer, angry TnoR, 

So Axel to the field, where dread 

And flight are reigning, hurrieth, 

A succoring angel sent in need ! 

His breast is steel, his arm is death, 

The Swedes he rallies ; left and right 

He flies upon his courser white. 

" Stand, friends ! close up your ranks anew ! 

From Charles, our king, I come to you, 

From his own lips a greeting bring, 

Our watchword still, God and the King ! " 

" God and King Charles ! " echoes through all 

Their lines ; they heed the hero's call. 

The height whence pours that shower of death 

Is stormed and taken in a breath, 
13 



298 POEMS. 

Silenced the cannon's roar ; like grain 
Weapons and corpses strew the plain, 
And swords smite blindly, but right true, 
The necks of that wild flying crew, 
And, panic-struck, the robber band, 
SlijDping their cables, leave the strand. 

Sleeping, like glutted beast of prey, 
Upon the field grim Slaughter lay. 
From heaven's pavilion shone the moon 
Upon that desolation down. 
Along the shore by night o'erspread. 
Walked Axel sighing 'mong the dead. 
In couples lying, how they clasp 
Each other ! deathly strong that grasp ! 
A true embrace would'st thou behold, 
Look not on lovers, who enfold 
Each other smiling ; go 
Forth rather to the battle ! see 
How to his heart foe presseth foe, 



AXEL. 299 

In the last dying agony ! 
" Transports of love and pleasure pass 
Swiftly as doth spring's fleeting breath ; 
But hate and pain and woe, alas ! 
Are faithful even unto death." 
Thus sighing, sudden doth ho shrink 
To hear a voice complaining cry, 
" I thirst, O Axel ! give me drink ! 
Receive my farewell ere I die ! " 
Those tones familiar ! at the sound. 
He clears the steep height with a bound. 

Lo ! leaning 'gainst the rock, there stood 

A stranger, wounded, bathed in blood. 

Forth from a cloud the moon's bright glance 

Fell on that pallid countenance ; 

With a wild shriek of horror, he 

Cries shudderingly, " God ! 'tis she ! " 
'Twas she indeed ! Her wounds' deep smart 

Hiding, her whisper faintly fell ; 

'•' Oh, welcome, Axel ! — No, tarewell ! 



300 POEMS. 

Death's chills are gathering round my heart ! 
Oh ! ask not what hath brought me here ! 
'Tis love alone hath made me err ! 
When shades of endless night come o'er us, 
And the tomb's gate stands close before us, 
How different then this life appears ! 
How small its sorrows and its cares ! 
Love only, blameless, pure like ours, 
Goes with us to the heavenly bowers. 
Thine oath, that I have sought to know, 
To me the shining stars will show ; 
There it stands written ; I shall see, 
As clear as they, thy truth to me. — 
I know I have done thoughtlessly, 
I know thou sorrowest sore for me ! 
Forgive me — for love's sake thou must ! — 
Each tear thou sheddest o'er my dust. 
Parent or brother I had none. 
But thou to me wert all in one; 
Thou wert my all ! — O Axel swear, 



AXEL. 301 



Tliat even in death thou hold'st me dear !- 
Thou swearest ! — Wherefore murmur 1 1 
For life, of all her poesy 
The fairest, best, hath dealt to me ; 
Thy bride ! — and on thy heart to die ! 
And shall not now my dust repose 
On soil thou'st saved from its foes ? 
Axel, behold ! over the moon 
A cloud is passing ; when 'tis flown, 
Then I depart ; my soul shall stand 
Transfigured on the heavenly land 
Praying for thee, and from the skies 
Watch o'er thee with immortal eyes. 
Plant by my grave a southern rose, 
And when it dies 'neath winter snows — 
Child of the sun — think of thy bride, 
Who lieth sleeping by its side. 
Brief was her bloom ! — But, Axel, see ! 
The cloud is gone, my spirit free ! 



302 POEMS. 

Farewell, farewell ! " faintly she sighs, 
Convulsive grasps his hand — and dies. 

Forth from the Stygian flood, not Death, 
But his young brother, Madness, rose. 
His face is pale, a poppy wreath 
Amid his locks dishevelled shows ; 
By turns he gazes on the ground. 
By turns looks upward to the skies ; 
His mouth convulsed a smile plays round, 
And tears bedim his half-shut eyes. 
Poor Axel's head with wand of power 
He touched, and ever from that hour 
The youth with ceaseless step doth walk 
Around the grave, as sagas say 
In olden time the dead would stalk 
Round where their buried treasures lay. 
And day and night that shore so lone 
Echoes his sad and touching moan. 



AXEL. 303 

" Hush, hush ! thou blue and billowy sea, 
Agamst the shore, oh, beat not so ! 
For in my dreams thou troublest me ; 
I do not love to hear thy flow. 
Thy foaming waves with blood are red ; 
And Death upon my shore thou'st led. 
But late, a youth here bleeding lay, 
I made his grave with roses gay ; 

For he was like 1 well know whom ! 

I'll bring her home, when spring doth bloom. 

They tell me that my bride doth rest 

In earth, — that o'er her faithful breast 

The green sod grows ; — Oh, no ! herself 

Last night upon that rocky shelf 

I saw, pale as they paint the dead. 

But that was from the moonbeam's light. — 

O'er lip and cheek a chillness spread, 

'Twas from the cold wind of the night. — 

I prayed the lovely shape to stay ; 

She laid her finger on my brow 



SO-i POEMS. 

So dark and heavy ; then it grew 

As light and joyous as the day. 

How shone they in the far, far East, 

Those days departed ! Oh, how blest 

Were they, how heavenly and how lair ! 

How happy was poor Axel there ! 

A castle stood deep in a grove. 

It was the mansion of my love. 

Pierced, dying, in a wood apart 

I lay, life gave she with a kiss. 

To my embrace she gave her heart, 

That heart so warm, so rich in bliss! 

Now in her faded breast, like stone 

It lieth cold ! — and all is gone ! 

Ye stars that burn in yonder sky, 

I pray you, quench your light and die ! 

I knew a morning-star so bright — 

A sea of blood hath drowned its light ! 

The scent of blood 1)reathes from the strand, 

Its crimson stain is on my hand ! " — 



AXEL. 305 

Such was the wail on Sotaskar ! 

When the day kindled, he was there, 

Nor turned away at fall of eve, 

But lingered still to watch and grieve. 

Dead on that shore one morn he sat, 

With folded hands, as if in prayer, 

On the pale cheek tears resting, that 

Were stiffened by the frosty air. 

And on the grave wherein she slept 

His eyes, though glazed in death, he kept. 



Such was the saga that I heard. 
How deep, how tenderly it stirred ! 
Full thirty winters since have strewn 
Their snows ; my heart preserves it still ; 
For childhood's fancies sharply drawn, 
With outline clear, are graven well 
Upon the poet's soul ; there they, — 
As in King Heimer's harp once lay 



306 roEMS. 

Fair Aslog * — rest, till starting forth, 
Like her they prove their noble birth 
With gorgeous robes and bearing high, 
And golden hair and kingly eye. 
Oh ! childhood's heaven doth ever hold 
Its counties lyres of ruddy gold ; 
Whate'er the bard doth later sing. 
Heroic deeds, or flowers of spring, 
In fairer forms all hath passed by, 
In earlier days, his childhood's eye. 
Still, when in verdant spring the quail 
Strikes out his music in the vale, 
And Luna from the eastern wave 
Starts like a spectre from the grave, 

* Aslog or Aslaug was the daughter of Sigurd Fafnisbani, (slayer of 
the dragon Fafnir,) a sort of Scandinavian Hercules, and Brynhilda. At the 
death of her father and mother she was three years old, and Heimir, Bryn- 
hilda's foster-father, fearing for her the hostility of family enemies, con- 
cealed her, with splendid garments and much treasure, in a large harp, 
with which he wandered about as a mendicant musician. The rich cloth- 
ing having been observed through an opening in the harp, by the mistress 
of the cottage where they lodged, she incited her husband to kill Ileimir, 
and the harp being broken open, Aslog was discovered. Sigurd is a fa- 
vorite hero of the Scandinavian mythic legends, and his life and exploits 
form the principal subject of the Icelandic Volsunga-Saga. 



AXEL. 307 



And painteth liill and painteth dale 
So sadly Avith death's color pale, 
Then sighs this ballad in mine ear, 
And yet again I seem to hear 
The song learned at the old man's side, 
Of Axel and his Russian bride. 



SONG OF THE LAPLAl^D LOYEE. 

FROM THE SWEDISH OF FEANZEN. 

Francis Michael Franzen was born at Uleaborg in Finland, in 
1'7'72, but retired to Sweden, when that province was ceded to Russia, 
and became Bishop of Hornoesand, in which position he remained 
until his death in 1847. He was among the most conspicuous and 
active members of the Swedish Academy, and his poems, the best of 
which are of a simple, natural, idyllic character, are deservedly popu- 
lar in Sweden. The following song has been especially admired. 

Spring, my reindeer swift ! 
Over field and fell ! 
Where my girl doth dwell 
Thou shalt paw the drift ! 
There the mosses grow 
Thick beneath the snow ! 



Ah, how short the day ! 
And the w^ay so long ! 



SONG OF THE LAPLAND LOVEK. 309 

Spring, then, at my song ! 
Let us haste away ! 
Rest thou may'st not here ! 
Wolves are ever near ! 



See, there flies the ern ! 



Blest the winged indeed ! 
See yon cloudlet speed ! 
Were I on it borne, 
I had now erewhile 
Seen thy far-off smile. 

Thou, this heart that hast 
Quickly made thy prey — 
Thus the wild deer they 
To the tame make fast — 
Cataract-strong to thee 
Down thou drawest me ! 



Since thy face I've known, 
Thoughts by thousands flit 



310 POEMS. 

Through me, day and night- 
Thousands, yet but one ! 
All in one combine — 
How to make thee mine ! 

Thou, to hide, may'st lie 
'Mong the rocks below — 
Where the fir-woods grow, 
With thy reindeer fly — 
Away, away, for me 
Shall both rock and tree ! 

Spring, my reindeer swift ! 
Over field and fell ! 
Where my girl doth dwell 
Thou shalt paw the drift ! 
There the mosses grow 
Thick beneath the snow ! 



THE MOSS-EOSE. 

FEOM THE GERMAN OF HELMINE YOX CHEZT, GEB. YON KLENKE. 

Deep in a dell, 'neath woodland shade, 
The green and tender moss was spread, 

A carpet velvet-soft. 
Small to the eye indeed, yet still 
Its tree-like form was wonderful — 

Branch, bough and leafy tuft. 

The low moss saw the wood's greeii pride, 
The blushing rose ; " Such pomp," it sighed, 

" Heaven hath refused me quite. 
Here many a light foot treadeth free, 
But not an eye doth look on me — 

All turn them to the light ! " 



312 POEMS. 

Lo ! through that grove, when twilight glows, 
With wandering step the Saviour goes, 

His features pale and wan ; 
'Twas grateful when the soft moss met 
So closely round His bleeding feet 

That still must journey on. 

Late had he left the desert land 

Where fiercely burned the sun and sand — 

The soft moss cooled His heat ; 
Then spake the Saviour, " From above 
On thee hath been bestowed such love, 

So earnest, tender, great ! 

" In the slight form assigned to thee 
Was ever eye too blind to see 

The Maker's power and grace ? 
Thou little plant so lightly prized, 
Thee hath thy Father not despised. 

Be patient in thy place ! " 



THE MOSS-ROSE. 313 

Scarce had the Saviour spoken thus, 
When, suddenly, sjDrings from the moss 

A rose most fair to see. 
From it the name of moss-rose comes, 
And now in every land it blooms, 

Sweet type of modesty. 

Into Christ's earthly cup some sweet 

The moss had poured — had kissed His feet ; 

This its reward at last. 
O heart, still true and tender rest. 
If, like the moss, thou art depressed. 

The rose is budding fiist ! 



14 



THE GLOW-WOEM. 

FROM THE GEEMAN OF HELMINE YON CHEZY, GEB. VON KLENKE. 

The blessed John once walked beside 
A limpid stream, and watched its tide. 
Through grass and flowers his jDathway lies, 
He marks them well with loving eyes, 
So fresh their bloom, so fair to sight — 
' Oh, God, this earth of Thine how bright ! 
The little floweret smiling still 
While buds and verdure fill the vale ! 
There's not a leaf or flower, I ween. 
But hath a sense of life within. 
Each little worm, though meanly dressed, 
Is in its conscious being blessed. 
Where'er a spark of life doth dwell 
The love of God abideth still ! ' 



THE GLOW-WOEM. 315 

With glowing heart thus musing, he 
Upon the earth a worm doth see ; 
A iDoor, gray thing, of make so slight 
His foot had well-nigh crushed it quite. 

He lifted it, with tender care, 

And placed it on a blossom Hiir. 

" Live, live ! " the loved disciple said, 

" For thee, too, were spring's bounties shed ! " 

The touch scarce felr that little frame, 

When a cpiick sense of blessing came ; 

Love's warmth through every fibre flows. 

And lo, with pleasing light it glows ! 

Wings grow apace, and him they bear 
Through the wide pathway of the air ; 
O'er tree tops, on soft gales of night, 
He floats as flashing emerald bright, 
Or, spread upon a flower, he lies 
Like a star fallen from the skies ; 
Soft on the turf then sinks that ray, 
And, loving still, doth pale away. 



A GODLIE HYMI^E, 



INDITED BY HULDKYCII ZWINGLE, WHEN HE WAS SMITTEN OF TE 
PESTILENCE. 



I. In ye begynninge of hys maladye. 

Lorde God, lielpe mec 
In this my neede ! 
I thinke indeede 
Dethe's at the doore. 



Em CHRISTENLICH GSANG, 

GESTKLLT DUKCH HULDRYCII ZWINGLI, ALS ER MIT PESTILENZ ANGQEIKFEN WARD- 

I, Im Anfang der KranhheM. 

Hilf, herr gott, hilf 
In diser not ! 
Ich mein der tod 
Syg an der thiir. 



A GODLIE HYltfNE. 317 

Stonde Thou before 

Mee, Christ, for Thou hast vanquisht Dethe ! 

I crye to Thee ; 

Plucke, ifThou wille, 

The shafte oute stille, 

That woundeth sore, 

And not an houre 

Dothe let me drawe in peace my brethe ! 

If Thou decree 

That I shal be 

Dethe's praye, my dayes halfe ronne, 



Stand, Christe, fiir, 

Dann du in iiberwunden hast. 

Zuo dir ich gilf : 

1st es din will, 

Ziich us den pfyl 

Der mich verwundt ; 

Xit lass ein stund 

Mich haben weder mow noch rast. 

Willt du dann glych 

Tod haben mich 

Inmitts der tagen min, 



318 POEMS. 



So tlienne, Thy wille be done ! 

Doe Thou Thy choyce; 

I have no voyce ; 

Thy creature stille 

Make whole, or spille ! 

And callest Thou 

My sj^irit nowe 

Awaye from tyme, 

Thou sav'st it from alle worser cryme, 

And ne'er againe 

Another's soule 'twill tainct wyth sinne. 



So soil es willig syn. 

Tbuo wie du willt : 

Mich niit befilt. 

Din haf bin ich : 

Macli ganz aid brich, 

Dann nimmst du hin 

Den geiste min 

Von diser erd, 

Thuost dus dass er nit bocser werd 

Aid andern nit 

Befleck ir lebcn fromm iind sitt. 



A GODLIE HYMNE. 319 

II. In the middest of ye disease. 

Give comfort, Lorde ! 

Mine ill cloth waxe, 

My frame paine rackes, 

My spirit, feare. 

Therefore drawe neare, 

Thou onlie Comforter ! with grace 

That do the accorde 

Pardon to alle 

On Thee that calle 

With hope entyre 



II. In Mitten der Krankheit. 

Troest, herr gott, troest ! 

Die krankheit wachst, 

Wee und angst fasst 

Min seel und ]yb. 

Darum dich schyb 

Gen mir, einiger trost, niit gnad ; 

Die gwiiss erloest 

Ein ieden der 

Sin herzlich bger 

Und hoffnung setzt 

In dich, verschatzt 



320 POEMS. 



And strong desyre, 

And count ertlie's gaine or losse but base. 

Nowe alle is o'er ! 

I noe worde more 

Can speake ; my tonge is dombe, 

My senses all are nombe. 

Forthy, 'tis neede 

That Thou do pleade 

My cause at lengthe. 

I have no strengthe 

Wherewyth I mighte 



Darzuo diss zyts all niitz und schad. 

Xim ist es um. 

Min zung ist stumni, 

Mag sprechen nit ein wort. 

Min sinn sind all verdorrt. 

Darum ist zvt 

Dass du min stryt 

Fuerist fiirhin, 

So ich nit bin 

So stark, dass ich 

Moeg tapferlich 



A GODLIE IIYMNE. 321 

Fyght the goode fighte, 

And bolde withstonde 

Tlie Divcll's wyles and cruell honde. 

Yet fixt shall be, 

Ilowe'er he rage, my hearte on Thee ! 

III. Whenne hys sicknesse was amended. 

Helthe, helthe, O Lorde ! 
I thynke at laste 
The paryl paste. 
Thou willynge, sinne 



Thuon widerstand 

Des tiifels faclit und frefner hand. 

Doch wirt min gmuet 

Staet blyben dir, wie er jocli wuet. 

III. //I der Besserung. 

Gsund, heiT gott, gsund ! 
Ich mein ich keer 
Schon widrum her. 
Ja woun dich dunkt, 
14* 



322 roEMs. 



Shal ne'er againe 

On erthe mee in hys daunger holde. 

My moiithe Thy worde 

And praise, moche more 

Than e'er before, 

Shall publyshe wyde 

Withonten guile, all plaine and bolde. 

Though I must paye 

Dethe's debt one daye, 

And it indeede may bee 

With greater payne to mee 



Der siinden funk 

Werd nit meer bherschcn mieli uf erd, 

So muoss min mund 

Din lob und leer 

Ussprechen meer 

Dann rormals ie, 

Wie es joch geh, 

Einfaltiglich on alle gfyerd. 

Wiewol ich muoss 

Des todes buoss 

Erlyden zwar einmal 



A GODLIE HYMNE. 323 

Than hadde befel. 



Lorde, if Thy wille 

But even nowe 

Hadde bid me goe, 

Yet wol I beare 

The stryfe and care 

Oferthe, O Lorde, 

In joyfulle hope of Thy rewarde, 

Wyth helpe from Thee, 

Withoute whych nought may parfyt bee ! 



Villycht mit groessrem qual 

Dann iezund waer 

Gescliehen, herr, 

So ich sunst bin 

Nach gfaren bin, 

So will ich doch 

Den trutz und poch 

In diser welt 

Tragen froelich urn widergelt 

Mit hilfe din, 

On den niit mag vollkommen s}ti. 



TO 

Beloved ! thou whose tender care hath fed 
My flickering lamp of life for many a year, 
Thon who hast watched beside my weary bed, 
And dried with loving hand the frequent tear, — 

Who, when each healing art had proved in vain, 
With a strong arm thy helpless burthen bore, 
Despite the threatenings of the stormy main, 
To milder breezes on a foreign shore, — 

Sweet was our rest in Arno's lovely vale, 
Amid her olive groves, her orange bowers, 
And if health came not on the balmy gale, 
Better than health the memory of such hours ! 



TO ^^ 325 

Nor less delight from Elmo's rock to gaze 
On the proud city spread so fair below, 
And on that classic sea red with the rays 
Of such a sunset as those skies may show. 

What awful pleasure, too, at midnight stirred, 
When from Vesuvius, like a sudden day, 
Shot the wild flames and molten lava poured, 
Turning to blood the waters of that bay ! 

Lifting my languid head, thou bad'st me look 
Where blazing rocks in showers were upward driven, 
With mighty thunderings from below, that shook 
As if the fiends of hell again made war on heaven. 

And all one golden winter did we lie 
Eocked softly on the breast of Nilus old, 
Silent with wonder, as we floated by 
Pharaonic glories still lefl: half untold. 



826 POEMS. 

Beneath the shadow of Arabian palms 
Thou'st gently fanned my heavy eyes to rest, 
Praymg new life might come with spicy balms 
Breathed o'er me from the land well named ' the Blest.' 

On hallowed Olivet our feet have trod, 

Where lie of Nazareth was wont to pray, — 

We wept o'er Salem that disowned her God, 

Her glorious garments stained, her kingdom rent away. 

Fair was our summer home as childhood's dream, 
Where, robed in clouds of canvas floating free, — 
While gilded barges gay his bosom gem — 
The dark blue Bosphorus hastes from sea to sea. 

Greece, with her purple islands swathed in gold. 
Her skies transparent as the ^Egean flood. 
Her mountains, that heaven's rainboAv-robes enfold — 
Even on that mythic shore together we have stood. 



TO — ^ . 327 

Nor sight of Nature's fairest scenes alone 
I owe thy love, O friend most true and wise ! 
Art's highest wonders, old and new, thou'st shown, 
And taught me how to see, and how to prize. 

And thy beloved voice hath charmed mine ear 
With many a sage's, many a nation's lore, 
Lifting my soul above each selfish care, 
When on the page sublime these eyes could look no 
more. 

Lo, now the humble offering that I make ! — 

A poor return for culture — well I know ! — 

Given with such liberal hand — yet do thou take ! — 

And may some future day fruits less unw^orthy shovr ! 

THE END. 



I JTiApii'.ii^o"] 






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